Short horror stories

Butter knife

My lungs cry. My lungs burn. Every time I cough, I spill blood on the dry asphalt. It's not a good day. Tuesday is never a good day. I killed my father yesterday with a knife I used to cut butter with. I love butter, at least I used to. That butter knife is inside my right pocket of my worn out jeans. It is really cold today. I didn't see Molly today, I wonder if she's alright.

I see a green neon lighting saying 'BAR'. I go inside. This place smells like of cow urine mixed with white wine, god is strange. I order two shots of whiskey and take the glass to my lips. My hands are shivering and if I become quiet enough, I can hear the wind chattering through the
small hole in the window on the top right side of this dingy place. Taking a cigarette out, I ask the bartender for a lighter. He gives me a gay look and hands over the lighter. After taking the two whisky shots, I leave the bar. I have to hide the body,it is beginning to rot in my room and
I can't take it anymore. I take the road again.

People peer out through the big gray buildings; ordinary people just going on with their lives. London never disappoints me. There is some junkie smoking pot and smuggling cocaine at every corner of the street. I walk past shady cars and enter my apartment. Dad's corpse lies there. It's colder than ice.I close his gaping mouth with my left hand. I take the body bag out of the store room. I had to steal it from the local mortuary. I try to lift his
body, he is fucking heavy. I try so hard and the body finally fits into the body bag. I lift the body bag up and carry it to the kitchen. I open the empty fridge and place his corpse there. I take the revolver from my left coat pocket and hold it to my right temple. I shoot. I bleed and I die.

I wake up now. It was a dream. I hear my dad beating the shit out of my mom.
I'm scared now, I take the butter knife. Yes. The butter knife.