Regret

            I ran afterwards, after doing it. I don’t know why. I was scared I guess. Maybe I was scared. I guess I really don’t know. It felt good though. Really good. I don’t regret it. No, I don’t wish I could change anything. But I wasn’t just going to stand there. No, I ran.

            I didn’t have intent to do what I did. Well, not really. I mean, I didn’t go there with any kind of predetermined plan, if that’s what you’re asking. I did, however, go there to see him. I went to talk to him. I didn’t know what I was going to say. I didn’t think it was important to know. I just knew, I knew I had to go, to say something. To say anything. You understand that, right? You have to understand that. After what he did, after all he did to me. I had to talk to him.

            I knocked on his door. There wasn’t an answer, so I knocked again. And I kept knocking. So then I kind of turned the knob a little bit, you know, just to see. And it opened. It opened some. So I called in. I asked if anyone was there. No one answered. I figured he was just in the bathroom or something. I knew he was there. He had to be. I mean; he was there. So I walked in.

            When I first walked in, I was in this big empty room. The place was dark. No furniture or anything. No pictures either. The windows were boarded up. I heard the floor creaking upstairs as someone paced. I knew he was there. I knew it. But then I realized where I was. What I was doing. I couldn’t believe it, you know? I couldn’t believe it. What was I supposed to do? There was no way I could face him. I looked around and noticed a door. It led to the kitchen, so I went in.

            I looked around. The kitchen was empty, just like the other room. There had to be something though, anything. So I looked in the drawers. Nothing after nothing. But then I found what I needed. Right there, it was in front of me the whole time, right there on the countertop. I could’ve kicked myself for not noticing it. Staring me in the face, pretty literally. All nice and shining. So I picked up the knife and walked back into the big empty room.

            A voice called down, the man’s voice. Carl. He said he knew it was me. Said he wanted to talk. He wanted to talk to me. Can you believe it? I pocketed the knife.

“What’re you doin’ here?” He was tired, quiet. He was drying off, wearing a towel. Totally exposed, vulnerable. Then I realized, I realized right there. He didn’t know. He didn’t know what I knew. He didn’t know that I knew. And I knew, right then, exactly, just, exactly what I needed to do.

There was so much blood that, well; I really didn’t know what I hadn’t cut yet. I wanted to try and get everything. As much as I could, that was the goal. So, at that point, I just cut deeper into certain parts. Parts, that, well, parts that I thought would just hurt. I didn’t want him to die. I swear I didn’t. I just, I wanted him to hurt. To hurt as much as he could. To feel everything. Every single breath. To taste each moment.

To scream. I wanted him to scream until he couldn’t anymore. Until there was nothing left in him to yell out. Until there was no reason left to say it all. Until he was broken inside. To scream so loud that he shattered into a million pieces.

I was crying you know. The whole time. From the moment I shoved the knife into his leg. Crying. I couldn’t stop it, believe me, I wanted to. I didn’t want him to think I cared. And, you know, I really didn’t. I don’t really think it was because of him. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t happy either. I was just, well, without emotion. I think that’s where they came from. They were tears of indifference.

And at the end I sat with him. He was bleeding, all over, but he wasn’t dead. I made sure to cut the right places. He wasn’t struggling as much. He was just lying there, heaving up and down. And then I looked at his eyes. And, you know, they looked back. I hated that. Those eyes, they just, they just stared at me. So I cut the first one out. He screamed. He screamed louder then he had before. He screamed. And I won. I did it. He screamed, he screamed so hard. And then he shattered on the inside.

I ran. I ran as fast as I could. I didn’t know where the knife was. I didn’t know where I was going. But the man, Carl, the guy who killed my dad, was where he was supposed to be. I didn’t care about anything else. He was taken care of. That’s all that mattered.

I didn’t run from it. That’s not why. I just did. I just ran. I’d do it again. Just to do it. Things make more sense then. A little more at least. No dead or alive- only movement. Constant. Just constant movement. When things slow down and when they stop, well, then, life becomes too clear. And when that happens, when it’s all that clear, it’s too easy to see what you have to do.

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He’s dead now. Carl. The man. I cut him too deep. Much too deep. But how far is that? How far’s too deep? No one asked me.

A guy