Clean Kitchen

Blood drips from a knife. Each drop stains the floor, disrupting the normally pseudo-clean kitchen. My friend is there. His breathing steadies, with his focus on me. My phone is hard to hold on to, making it difficult to dial. The assumption of being able to take him dissolves in every passing moment.

“Please! Help me!” Ariel cries from the bathroom.

She’s just as scared as I am. Death watches both down his girlfriend and I.

“Help me.” Roger, my roommate pleads, though his voice is flat. It’s almost like someone speaks for him. “We’ll never talk about this again.”

Everything links together. Past conversations, jokes, mannerisms, fights; the memories flip through my mind, looking for something that makes sense, a pattern that explains what’s happening right now.

“I won’t help you.” The condition of his girlfriend thrusts to the forefront of my mind, her trying to hold everything in place. “I’m calling the police.”

I wish it didn’t sound like I’m bluffing.

“I will kill you.” Roger says with conviction. “Help me, and I’ll just disappear.” He’s definitely not bluffing. My courage flees.

“You’ll have to kill me.” I say.

I raise the phone, inches at a time in an attempt not to aggravate him. A tingle travels down my back, chilling my torso as the phone passes my chest. As it gets to my earlobe, he lunges.

Focus on the knife.

I sidestep, shooting my weight to my left. Every previous dropped item, fumbled phone, stubbed toe lies to me as the knife rips my shirt open, fileting into my rip cage. The knife grazes me, stinging like nothing I’ve ever felt before. The warm blood at my side smears the image of my friend, the one who never existed. He slashes upwards, to the left, then to the right. Two quick steps save me, but the counter pins me in place. I grab his knife hand, and punch him with the other. I cock back to follow up, but he closes the space, connecting his head with my chin. The pain is unreal, until I hear a loud thump against wood. My knees go weak.

The recovery is quick, and I to catch my fall. I roll to face my attack and catch his hands as he slams the blade down. The cabinet door slowly swings open.

He’s going to kill me.

Roger lifts his knee, then forces it in my stomach. The blade lowers a few more inches, hovering over my chest. Ariel weeps gently in the bathroom. Sweat falls from Roger face onto mine. His face is blood red, and the blade pulses above my heart.

My best friend is going to kill me.

The skin on his forearm give way as my fingernails claw into it. He yelps. The iron mesh of his arms loosen, and I shove his knuckles into the floor. The knife escapes. My haymaker connects, then I fill my hand with a fist full of his shirt. I pull him to the ground, then grab him by the hair. His hair greases my palm as his head ascends, and there’s a hope he doesn’t go for the knife. I bring him back to the ground.

My screams fill the empty kitchen; tears wet my shirt. His head becomes a dumbbell, and this turns into reps of a work out. My fingers ache. The arm cramps, but I don’t care. I pound the floor with his face.

Blood soaks the floor now. My entire body shakes. The realization sets in that I killed a good friend in self-defense. My sobs start to align with Ariel’s in the other room.

My emotions dull. I don’t know how much time has passed. The apartment is silent. I think of the phone, and look around to hopefully get a glimpse of it. Nothing. It could be underneath him.  It’s not worth the chance of waking him up.

The silences reigns as I take two steps back, but a whimper breaks it. She’s alive. It could be air escaping her body, or quite the opposite; a breath of life. The curiosity is strong, and it draws me to her.

“I don’t want to die.” She whispers.

I enter the bathroom, and she looks up from the floor. The bath rug matches her blouse; covered in red, with a bit of iron. She smiles. It’s peaceful. I kneel down next to her.

“Everything’s going to be alright.” I say. The tears in her eyes waiver my assurance. “Where are you hurt?”

“My hand.” She whispers.

Something’s different.

The tears stopped, but the smile’s still there. It’s bigger, which confuses me. She’s closer, and even though her hand is on my stomach, I don’t feel it. She’s holding a handle.

Focus on the knife.

I grab her hand. I don’t understand what’s going on. Everything is confusion, except the knife in my torso. That part’s pretty clear. I can’t form the word at first, but after the tug of war we’re now playing with the handle, I spit out, “Why?”

“Cause you killed my boyfriend.” She responds with the most joy I’ve ever seen on her face.

She stops pulling and pushes the knife deeper into me; making the previous graze nothing but a prelude. She pulls the knife out effortlessly, then plunges it back. I collapse. She drops the knife, job finished.

She walks into the other room. The view of the toilet becomes pleasant, much more than the damage done. Looking down means me acknowledging the end, erasing all doubt. Suddenly, it seems like that maybe pressure will be enough, so my arms move to try to hold everything in, attempting to seal the holes in my stomach. I wish that was all I needed.

“I told you I’d get him, baby.” She says to him, cleaning on the floor around him. He stirs.

“I don’t want to talk about.” He responds with the floor muffling him.

She sits him up and starts to clean his face. His nose is mushed, and blood covers his entire face.

“Oh no, honey.” She says. “I told you this had to be more controlled.”

“Wasn’t that exciting though?” He says.

“He broke your nose.”

“I know.”

She continues to wipe his face and he just looks at her, proud. She notices, and they start giving each other the same old lovey-dovey eyes they always give each other, like none of this ever happened; like I’m not bleeding out 10 feet away from them. They kiss.

I hack up some blood. It interrupts them, and they look in my direction, disgusted. She pecks him on the lips, then leaves the room. He brushes himself off, and wipes the remaining blood off his face with a paper towel. The blood in my hands get cold. He picks up my phone from the corner of the kitchen, and walks over. He drops the phone on my chest. It makes me wince, and I hate myself for it. He looms.

“Why?” I repeat.

“I really, really hate doing your dishes.” He says.

“What?” I whisper unwillingly.

“The way you just sit in the living room all day. The way you look at Ariel. The way I see you look at me with a smug look on your face. The look as if you're better than me.”

It’s hard to focus, but there’s no humor in his face. He was serious.

“I could have…” It takes more strength to speak. “I could have left.”

“Yeah, but this time I finally got to have fun with you.”

Ariel comes back with two coats.  He takes his and puts it on. She kisses him on the cheek.

“I won the bet dinner is on you.” She says, leaving into the living room.

“Let me guess, BBQ again?” He says, following her. Their voices slowly fade as they head down the stairs.

“You know it, I love their wings.”

“Are you going to get sick again?”

“No, this time…” Her voice cuts off with a shutting door.

Silence. The phone weighs heavy on my chest. My vision doubles and blurs, making the bathroom light dance above me. It’s nice; relaxing. I drag my hand to the phone, and grab hold of it. I struggle to look at the screen. My free hand drops to the floor. I only hear it thump.  The screen sharpens in my vision.

I slide the phone icon up, unlocking my screen.

Do I want to live through this?

I hit 9.

Do I want to live with this?

I hit 1.

Can I make it?

I hit 1. My vision dulls, hiding the touch screen. I slam my thumb onto my screen. I feel my phone slip from my hand.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

The voice is clear.

“Is anyone there?

…

“Hello?”