Crimson

A knocking, and I turn abruptly.  I have no plans for visitors.  A shiver and I raise my body as if to move.  Gliding, I walk to the door. Sweat beads at my temples as my hand grasps the knife I keep hanging by the front door.  Gazing through the peephole, I see your eyes staring back.  Startled, I jumped back, almost tripping over nothing but your eyes.  I roll the dead bolt and pinch the lower lock, turning it to loosen the door.  As I swing it open you turn, a smile forming on your lips.  I usher you into the house and out of the pelting rain.  As you slide past me, the knife holds to my hand.  I feel its weight in my palm.  Your back turned, I pulled my arm back slightly.  Your voice begins and my arm thrusts forward.  I feel the pressure and then it just glides in.  Red pours and you turn fast, but not before my hand causes the blade to retreat from your back.  Time slows and you’re facing me now.  The look on your face, a mix of pain and confusion.  I thrust again and you drop to your knees.  I’m still holding on, pushing deeper with every labored breath.  I follow you to the ground, knees on the floor now.  Your eyes drain and your skin falls.  Your face now is stuck in a sort of wonderment.