Alarms blared.
The screech pierced through the hollow air of the room. It was a suffocating noise—blasphemous in its origin. It was a product of sin, shame, and the end of an era. I could almost hear the dripping sound of blood or the pool it formed in front of my feet. The knife dropped to the floor with a clatter, louder than the noise of the alarm. The blood running down my hands soaked the sleeve of my shirt.
For the first time, I saw my hands tremble.
I had done it.
I shook my head to clear the sudden rush of excitement and wiped my already drying fingers in my light wash jean. I dropped to my knees. My breath came in gasps as I reached out for the gory blade. I grasped it with shaky hands and pulled it close to me. I held it like a child—the love pouring out of my chest, directed at the blade that had ended the beginning of my revenge.
