My parents alway told me that if I were ever to see something–anything–out of the ordinary, I should report it to them and keep my cat close. I never questioned them. The wind was howling outside by now, but I paid it no mind. I sat next to Chip on the sofa and opened my book again. I don’t think I sat there for long when I suddenly was hungry for a snack. I put my book down and went into the kitchen. I opened the pantry and began a search for a good snack when I heard a noise. I froze, listening.
It didn’t sound like a cat waking up from a nap and coming for food. It sounded like a door opening and someone walking in my house. Being as quiet as inhumanly possible, I slid over to a drawer and pulled out a knife. Not a simple, small steak knife. A butcher knife. I snuck over to the edge of the doorway that connected the kitchen to the living room and peeked out. A tall, imposing figure stood in my living room. He was dressed dark with dark hair. His back was turned to me, but before I could get a good look at him, he whipped around and locked his yellow eyes with mine.
I ducked back into the kitchen, but hiding was useless; he knew I was there. The situation felt like those nightmares where you try to hide but the monster finds you anyway and you have nothing to defend yourself with. But this wasn’t a nightmare, and I had a knife. I heard his footsteps pound closer to where I was, and as soon as I saw his dark shape, I struck out with the knife.
It was all a blur, but when I came to, the floor was covered in red. My hands felt warm and sticky, and I noticed with numb shock that they were red too. I carefully looked up at the man who entered my house, and my heart almost stopped. My knife had struck his forearm and stayed there, like a needle in a pincushion. I thought I might faint from all the blood running off his arm. He didn’t seem surprised or even in pain, he just stared at the kitchen tool for a heartbeat. Then, without flinching, he yanked the knife out of his arm, and more blood pooled from it.
My eyes widened further and I gasped, my hands almost flying to my mouth when I remembered they were covered in blood; his blood. He looked up then. He glanced between my stricken face, my hands, then the knife. He placed the weapon on the counter behind him before approaching me. I shrank back, and he stopped. He held out the hand that wasn’t dripping with blood.
“Give me your hands.” He said. His soft tone was not what I expected. At first he repeated the simple request. Then, when I didn’t answer, he made it a demand. Slowly, out of numb shock, I stretched my hands out and the man tugged me over to the kitchen sink. He turned the faucet on and began rinsing the red from my hands. The water felt good, but I couldn’t stop shaking. Not after what just happened. I glanced at the stranger and where the knife penetrated his arm. His blood now soaked his lower sleeve, turning it dark and wet in appearance.
“I… I’m sorry.” I said, surprising myself. The man hardly checked up.
“Nothing to be sorry about,” he said, as calm as ever, “You did it out of self-defense. I expected nothing less.”
(ACK it's long, I'm sorry O///O)
