I stare at the TV, my eyes sometimes flickering to Ana.
Her eyes are glued to the screen where a fighting scene is playing. Action music plays on a low volume in the background.
History books with faded covers and ripped pages clutter the clean wood floor of the living room. What Ana doesn’t know is these ‘history books’ are filled with techniques. Special techniques.
“Do you want a glass of water?” I ask, turning my head in her direction.
Ana doesn’t break eye contact with the TV, as if they’re having a stare-down. She clears her throat again, and I take it as a yes.
The kitchen light is off, and all is silent except for the silent hum of the refrigerator. I grab a glass of water from one cabinet and stride over to the glowing water filters. My eyes flicker to the bottle of poison hidden with the enormous bottles of vitamins.
If I wanted to, I could. I have a chance right now. No, I’m doing this myself. She dies of ‘natural’ causes. A heart attack. Panic attack. Maybe not.
I resist the temptation to poison her drink. She doesn’t trust me enough yet.
The sound of water dripping into the jar distracts me, and I call, “Ice or not?”
“Uh… I’ll take it with ice,” she says, her voice dull like a razor that’s been overused.
I run back to the couch, passing her the glass. She hesitates and breaks eye contact with the TV, checking the water.
A frown forms on her face, and I grin, applauding myself for making the right decision.
“Is something wrong?” I say as I watch her.
Her eyes widen at me, and she shakes her head. “Nah.”
Her shoulder presses against mine and I hear her calm breaths. Neither of us says a word as she slides her arm around my shoulder like a snake. The movie continues, and I rest my head on her shoulder. I need to hurry this up.
I pull a knife out of my pocket and drive it towards her neck in a flash, my other arm tight around her neck like a python with a mouse.
Ana grunts in surprise, a gasp fleeing her crusty lips.
The needle from my pocket sinks into the back of her head and she falls to the floor, paralyzed. I lie on top of her, stroking her hair.
“I did like you,” I say, resting my face on her cheek for a second. “Still though, they sent me here, not to fall in love with you.”
I grab her by the arm and drag her into my closet, where she will remain until tomorrow.
My hands are blood-free, and I flop down on the couch again, wanting to sleep.
The annoying blare of my phone goes off, and I groan, standing up.
Now, I have to deal with the stupid guy outside.
This’ll be a piece of cake.
I watch her make her way toward her cell phone and grin.
Her hand touches the phone for a second, but she hesitates as she sees the caller ID. Her hands shake as it hovers in the air, wondering what to do.
She ignores the phone, biting her lip, glancing around in alarm.
They tell me she’s dangerous, but she looks paranoid.
My knife calls my attention, and I put my hand over it in my pocket.
The thought of her blood splattered on the walls is a dream, but it’s about to become a reality.
I creep around the house, healthy, green grass tickling my feet the entire time. My eyes stay on the girl, never lose sight of her. Her name is Jolee Harper, she’s 27 and single, and she lives alone on 45 West Street.
The wind whistles in my ears as I look for an entrance, trying all the doors and windows. I come across one window that isn’t locked and open it.
Jolee’s house is pretty quiet, besides the whole horror movie in the back. I try to resist the urge to snicker.
She’s supposed to be the strongest fighter in this whole thing. No way, she’s just lucky. It can’t be.
My eyes adjust to the darkness, and I recognize this as Jolee’s bedroom. I make my way to the living room, knife in hand. When I enter, though, the room is empty. I sigh.
Guess this happens when you take your eyes off someone for a second.
Sharp pain shoots up my body and I let out a gasp. A hard blow to the back of my head makes me black out for a minute. I turn around to see Jolee. She stares at me with a huge grin on her face, a butterfly knife in one hand and her phone in the other.
“I don’t appreciate people calling me late at night,” she says, a feral snarl plastered on her face.
I roll my eyes, body shaking as I try to stand. “Put the knife down, you don’t know how to use it.”
Jolee’s eyes narrow, and she purses her lips, raising the knife above me. “Like hell I don’t!”
“What the hell do you want, loser?” I exclaim, grabbing a knife off the dresser next to me and throwing it at him.
“You missed,” Harlow says to me, sliding out of the way.
I nod, stretching my arms. “I know, did that on purpose, stupid.”
“Where were you last night?”
My eyes widen, and I look up at Harlow. “Oh, I was... with my friend.”
“Sure you were. You don’t have any friends. Unless you’re talking about dead people,” - he glared at me, his arms crossed - “then they don’t count. So who were you REALLY with?”
“You know the answer, stupid. I was at the club.” I inhale the cigarette smoke and burst out coughing, waving the surrounding air. “Gosh, didn’t I tell you to stop smoking?”
I grab the knife off the table next to me and aim it at his cigarette. Then I pull my hand back and throw it.
Harlow’s eyes widen and he jumps back, but the cigarette is nailed to the wall.
“Shit, Jolee!” he exclaims, shaking his hand.
He storms toward me, his hand is the air. I don’t flinch at all, just stare at him as he stands above me.
His hand impacts my face and pushes my head to the side.
“I’m leaving.” Standing up from the couch, I shove him away, running out the door.
Harlow watches me, rolling his eyes. “Fine with me,” he says, sitting down where I was sitting down before.
“Gosh, I wish I’d killed you when I got the chance,” I mutter, my hands in my pockets.
“Right back at you,” he calls, and I slam the door behind me.