She could feel the cold handle of the knife tightly in her hands, gently turning her wrist left and right to see the shimmering glimmers dance across the steel blade. Anticipation burned deep and red in the depths of her stomach like coal and fire; the flames licked at the linings of her insides as the vicious violence of blind anger clawed its way to her chest.
She was engulfed.
Her feet were steadfast to the ground, just outside his house. The sky was made of ink and the night was still from any movement, no cicadas to calm your unsettlement, no rustling branches to fill you; it was a deathly kind of silent.
There was nothing to light her way to the pristine pavement past the pretty picket fence but the cool white light of the street lamp residing next to two garbage bins on the curb. It was a nice house. Well maintained, and painted a lovely pale shade of blue with white windows and drapes. It was of old styled architecture, but very well renovated. Though none of this was appreciated in the moment, she wanted blood, his blood specifically. Well, even more specifically, the pain resulting from the release of blood from his body through flesh wounds.
Her feet felt heavier with each fast paced step towards the door; the bricks in her soles made no difference in the determination she felt as she glided towards the entrance. An explosion of noise erupted as she flung open the wooden door with a clean kick and scavenged the house for the source of her target. Unknowing, unprepared, unaware.
He stood silent.
Discovered in the kitchen, hunched over a cold meal and looking up to see a wild-eyed woman in his house.
He was frozen.
She was not.
