by Alex Thornber

I wasn’t clear on why I did it, but I had. Stood in front of her, bloody knife in my hand, disbelief on her face. I had done it. It had been building, I knew that much. A slap or two never questioned or spoke about, soon devolved into punches, cuts, burns and a ‘trip’ down the stairs.

It all started with a ding on her car.

“I still love you.”

Then the broken window in her mother’s house.

“I still love you.”

A girl from the year below.

“I still love you.”

Whatever happened, those four words would be her response. I couldn’t understand it but I knew I couldn’t be without her. I wondered how far it could go, what she could take.

I told her a tale entirely fictitious about a couple of girls at once, fuelled by drugs and how I’d stolen money to buy the drugs and lied to them about having a girlfriend and how it was amazing and I wasn’t even sorry.

She just sat in the chair and took it with a blank expression, playing with a piece of paper on the table. I couldn’t understand it.

I pulled the knife out of my pocket and plunged it through the left hand. It cut through to the wood, pinned it down.

Not a blink.

“Don’t you even care?” I cried.

“I don’t know what you want, just do what you have to.”

“I don’t want to do this. Do you think I like doing this? I want a reaction, for you to say something, to finally hear you scream.”

She sighed. A small puddle of blood had pooled around the knife and was peaking out from under the hand still pinned to the table.

She got up from her chair, came round the table and hugged me. With one arm around my shoulders she squeezed and pulled the knife out of my hand with a jolt.

“I don’t understand you, but I love you.”