Blood drips from a knife. Each drop stains the floor, disrupting the normally pseudo-clean kitchen. My friend is there. His breathing steadies, with his focus on me. My phone is hard to hold on to, making it difficult to dial. The assumption of being able to take him dissolves in every passing moment.
"Please! Help me!" Ariel cries from the bathroom.
She's just as scared as I am. Death watches both down his girlfriend and I.
"Help me." Roger, my roommate pleads, though his voice is flat. It's almost like someone speaks for him. "We'll never talk about this again."
Everything links together. Past conversations, jokes, mannerisms, fights; the memories flip through my mind, looking for something that makes sense, a pattern that explains what's happening right now.
"I won't help you." The condition of his girlfriend thrusts to the forefront of my mind, her trying to hold everything in place. "I'm calling the police."
I wish it didn't sound like I'm bluffing.
"I will kill you." Roger says with conviction. "Help me, and I'll just disappear." He's definitely not bluffing. My courage flees.
"You'll have to kill me." I say.
I raise the phone, inches at a time in an attempt not to aggravate him. A tingle travels down my back, chilling my torso as the phone passes my chest. As it gets to my earlobe, he lunges.
Focus on the knife.
I sidestep, shooting my weight to my left. Every previous dropped item, fumbled phone, stubbed toe lies to me as the knife rips my shirt open, fileting into my rip cage. The knife grazes me, stinging like nothing I've ever felt before. The warm blood at my side smears the image of my friend, the one who never existed. He slashes upwards, to the left, then to the right. Two quick steps save me, but the counter pins me in place. I grab his knife hand, and punch him with the other. I cock back to follow up, but he closes the space, connecting his head with my chin. The pain is unreal, until I hear a loud thump against wood. My knees go weak.
The recovery is quick, and I to catch my fall. I roll to face my attack and catch his hands as he slams the blade down. The cabinet door slowly swings open.
He's going to kill me.
Roger lifts his knee, then forces it in my stomach. The blade lowers a few more inches, hovering over my chest. Ariel weeps gently in the bathroom. Sweat falls from Roger face onto mine. His face is blood red, and the blade pulses above my heart.
My best friend is going to kill me.
The skin on his forearm give way as my fingernails claw into it. He yelps. The iron mesh of his arms loosen, and I shove his knuckles into the floor. The knife escapes. My haymaker connects, then I fill my hand with a fist full of his shirt. I pull him to the ground, then grab him by the hair. His hair greases my palm as his head ascends, and there's a hope he doesn't go for the knife. I bring him back to the ground.
My screams fill the empty kitchen; tears wet my shirt. His head becomes a dumbbell, and this turns into reps of a work out. My fingers ache. The arm cramps, but I don't care. I pound the floor with his face.
Blood soaks the floor now. My entire body shakes. The realization sets in that I killed a good friend in self-defense. My sobs start to align with Ariel's in the other room.
My emotions dull. I don't know how much time has passed. The apartment is silent. I think of the phone, and look around to hopefully get a glimpse of it. Nothing. It could be underneath him. It's not worth the chance of waking him up.
