When my life ended, it wasn’t the creaking of the stairs that warned me too late. It wasn’t the flickering of lights, or the unnatural draft blowing through the room. Not the fear in my belly, or the sense of being watched. I didn’t hear voices and ask who’s there. No. I didn’t creep in the dark of a haunted house.
When I died, it was the breath on my neck, the stab of the knife in my back, the pain that brought me to my knees. That’s what warned me too late.
It was the machete you plowed through my center, the one we used to hack away at the overgrown vines on the door. I didn’t have a cliché horror movie moment where the viewer yells “He’s behind you.” No, your betrayal made no sense. The shock of it left me in pieces as you stomped your way through my escaping blood. The laughter coming from your gut chilled the last remaining heat from my body as I lay lifeless. My last sight was your retreating figure not looking menacing at all, but rather joyful. My heart beating quickly at the rapt confusion pushed what blood I had left at your distant feet. My body cold, my life extinguished.
Your Beloved Author,