The Knife. Flash Fiction.

There was more blood than she expected. So much more. She stood above him, knife still in hand. His eyes were open, he was making gurgling sounds but she wasn’t worried. She had cut him deep. Though she was surprised he even woke up. Normally once he had his few drinks he was dead to the world. Truth be told it was more than just a few, but she could never tell him that. Not unless she wanted to be punished and oh did he have so many ways of punishing her. She knew why she was here, why she was stuck in hell. She was a bad person and bad people get punished. She could never do anything right, not even simple things. He would never let her leave, he would kill her before he would let that happen. He had even told her so. This was the only way to escape. She knew she could never hide this, but that was ok. She would be free of him forever now.

She dropped the knife on the ground and left the bedroom. She would need a shower. She was covered in blood, the small drips that were following her didn’t matter, there was no one else to complain about how messy the house was and she didn’t care.

She showered slowly, methodically, making sure she was clean, she didn’t want to be covered in blood any longer than necessary. Once that was done she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in a towel, wincing slightly as she pressed against a bruise. Her arms were mottled, she knew her stomach was too, her body a patchwork of scars.

Once she had dressed she went into the kitchen to use the phone. She wasn’t allowed have a cell phone. She dialed and waited.
“I uh, I need the police. I just killed my husband. I’m going to go sit down in the sitting room and leave the front door open. I’m not armed and I won’t put up a fight or anything.” She didn’t bother hanging up. It seemed like a good idea to be in the sitting room, away from anything sharp. She sat on the couch and waited.


About Alan James Keogh

I am a 26 year old writer who somehow tricked U.C.D. into giving me not only a degree in English and Classical studies, but an Hons Masters in Creative Writing too. Visit my blog where I post short stories twice a week (Monday and Wednesday) and an installment of a serialised novel on Fridays. I did consider writing this in the third person, as though it was written by someone else, but Alan is not comfortable writing in the third person as it seems kinda creepy and unbalanced so Alan decided it was probably best to write in the first person. He hopes it went well for him.
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