One by one,
droplets of sweat and blood joined together and trickled down my forehead. Trailing
along the temple, they hung onto my furrowed eyebrows and underneath, nestled my
hazel orbs. A tempest of anger reflected in my eyes as every breath I drew
nudged more sweat down the edges of my face. Although my heart was racing, my
palm remained perfectly still with cold steel in its grasp. Firmly I held the
knife as I looked down onto the foe beneath my boot. With every degree of
strength I forced down onto his windpipe, the more his countenance begged for
mercy. Unable to get himself up, incapacitated, he laid against the concrete.
He was starting to pool himself with his own blood, making it easier for the
forensics to trail his body. A perfect outline with blood, guzzling out of
multiple entry points delivered by my beloved knife.
As the
night froze, so did my thoughts. My determination fueled me, clawing against
the back of my skull with blades sharper than mine, at every passing second. My
inner voice whispered, guiding me to shatter the man’s neck under my heel, to
put an end to his existence. I felt the power rushing through me, my senses
sharp to the adrenaline coursing through my body. The clouds and the streets
were my bystanders, it was a gloomy night and the air felt cold. Colder than
the blade in my hand, colder than steel itself. For what is power if I do not
exercise it? What is strength if I do not utilize it? These two questions rang
from ear to ear, like a rat trying to find its way out of a maze. Alas, I took
a moment to understand the silence of the night and it brought my breath to a
stand-still.
With
regret, I took a step back, both mentally and physically. It released air into
my foe’s system, he tasted rich oxygen as if it were a commodity he could now afford.
I understood there was sheer tenacity in my grip, and it was ultimately mine to
control. Will he live? people seldom die drowning in their own blood.
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