Wrongdoings

I was always afraid of knives. The things they can do to a human body if not handled with care disturbed me to my core, making me shudder at the thought of cutting myself or someone else. But that night I couldn't care less, as my hate for him was far stronger than my fear of any sharp objects.

I had years to fantasize about my revenge, weeks to think if I am really up to it and mere days to plan it. Still, despite such deadline, I managed to come up with a perfect plan. Everything I needed I bought with cash in many different places all around the city. I found out where he would be, where he would go, and I made a route of my own, intersecting with his at the most secluded area. His death was a long time coming, and I would not--could not waste this opportunity.

I waited for him around the corner, my black clothes helping me blend with the shadows. He was right where he was supposed to be, and just as he turned the corner I grabbed him by the shoulder and plunged the blade of my knife deep into his stomach. He tried to scream, but only a choked gasp left his mouth. He tried to fight and even managed to land a few punches, but nothing could stop me at that point. I pulled my knife out and stabbed him again, and again, and again. He fell down on the ground, moaning with pain and clutching his wounds. I moved closer, removed my mask and looked straight into his eyes. I couldn't tell if the terror on his face was from the realization that his life has ended, or from the realization who ended it. I didn't care, I just wanted him to know that it was me who killed him. I wanted him to know why he was lying on the ground with his guts out. I wanted him to know that his death was a consequence of his own actions.

I dropped the knife and put my boot on his stomach. I pressed, hard, and the scream he let out was euphoric. Blood gushed out of the wounds, spilling all over his body and drenching my boots. I asked him if he had any regrets. I asked him if he was sorry. He begged me for mercy. Funny, that. He never listened to me when I begged. I moved closer, put my boot on his head and stomped. I heard a sickening crunch... and then I stomped again.

Then again.

And again.

And again and again and again and again and--

I stopped only when I realized that I was hitting concrete. I stepped back, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The night's air was crisp with a slight hint of metal. I counted to three, exhaled and opened my eyes. A mess of mashed bones and flesh was all that was left of his head. I never knew I had that sort of strength in me. What I did know was that I had to leave that alley as soon as possible. Yet, where was one last thing I had to do.

I reached into my backpack and pulled out a rope and a red spray can. Usually people try to hide their wrongdoings, but I didn't do anything wrong. He did, he paid for it, and now his headless body would serve as a warning to others like him.

I am not afraid anymore. Not of him, not of others like him, and especially not of knives.