I sat there, with the knife in my cheek, I could feel the pain, but it felt distant, it reminded me of my morning meditation, how I was so peaceful. I simply could not see remorse in the fact that a cold rusty steel knife had impaled itself inside my face.
No, I thought, he stabbed me, the one who lopped my parent’s head off with his butcher’s knife, the one who brutally dismembered the organs of my aunt and uncle, the one who had failed to murder me tonight, the one who fled, with his ear that I had cut off with a chainsaw.
I felt great pleasure in shedding the blood of the man who had shed my blood.
All of these thoughts were stretched out over the course of a week, my wounds had healed, and the hunger pains seemed like a fly landing on you compared to the knife. I could pull, the knife out, but what would I do with it. I would leave it there so it could remind me that I need to still fight.
The front door swung open, a breeze flew in and chilled me to the bone, but the footsteps shook fear into my heart like nothing else. I grabbed a lamp that had been on the counter next to me, and I took off the lamp shade and I used both hand to find the correct balance point of the weapon. I hid behind a door and the shadowy figure walked in with a Remington 870 shotgun and a hunting knife at his side.
I used all of my adrenaline to swing it at his head, and he should have been knocked unconscious easily, but he got to his feet and pointed the deadly weapon that could shed more blood toward me. I couldn’t let him destroy the bloodline, so I rushed forward and cupped my hand over the barrel. The gun fired.
I disarmed him with a technique my father taught me the night I lost him, but the pain from the shotgun made me cry out with horror.
I glanced at my hand, the barrel had shot many tiny bullets in one shell, and the result was my finger bones snapping and holes that shot directly threw my hand, making blood ooze out. I attempted to pick up the shotgun, but my hand locked up and bent back without my approval, I let out a guttural scream as my wrist snapped and the only thing stopping my hand from falling off was the skin.
My attacker was fazed but he took little time to steady his hunting knife and stab it into my thigh. I screamed once more, I couldn’t use the shotgun, for it was too heavy with one hand. So I yanked the knife from my face, and I stung with horrible pain since the edges were serrated. I drove the knife into my enemies eyeball and straight into his brain.
This had de-escalated quickly, but I would not complain. I had done my family a great service by destroying this assassin, and I drifted off into a sleep of my mother’s loving arms, my father’s proud look, and my whole family’s gratitude, for me.