Page 10 of The CEO

Something inside me shifts, a sudden rage burning through my small body. I push open the cabinet door silently, eyes adjusting to the dim light of our apartment. On the kitchen counter, a knife block holds mismatched blades that Mom picked up at yard sales. I select the largest, testing its weight in my small hand.

The screaming continues from the living room, punctuated by the dull sounds of fists on flesh. I move toward it with a calm I don’t understand, knife held carefully behind me.

What I see stops me cold. Mom is on the floor, blood pooling beneath her head. Ray stands over her, still kicking her motionless form, spittle flying from his mouth as he curses.

“Worthless fucking whore,” he slurs, delivering another kick to her ribs. “Think you can leave me? Nobody leaves me!”

He doesn’t notice me at first—he’s too consumed by his rage. I watch, something cold and calculating taking root where fear should be. Mom isn’t moving. Her eyes are open, fixed on nothing, and a trickle of blood runs from the corner of her mouth across her cheek to join the larger pool beneath her head.

She’s dead. Or dying. And Ray killed her.

The knowledge settles in me not with grief, but with a strange, detached clarity. I grip the knife tighter, stepping into the room.

“Hey!” My voice sounds strange even to my own ears. It’s too calm, too controlled for a child witnessing his mother’s murder.

Ray whirls, nearly losing his balance. His eyes, bloodshot and unfocused, lock onto me, then drop to the knife in my hand. A bark of laughter escapes his lopsided grin.

“The fuck you gonna do with that, boy?” He takes a step toward me, swaying slightly. “Put it down before you hurt yourself.”

I don’t move. I don’t speak. I just watch him, waiting for the right moment. Ray’s amusement turns to irritation.

“I said put it down, you little freak!” He lunges forward, hand outstretched to grab me.

That’s when I strike—not out of panic or fear, but with calculated precision. The knife plunges into his stomach, just below the rib cage, angling upward like I saw in a movie once. Ray’s eyes widen in shock as his forward momentum carries him onto the blade.

“What the—” Blood bubbles at his lips, and his hands grab weakly at my shoulders.

I twist the knife, feeling tissue resist then give way. Ray makes a gurgling sound, stumbling backward, the knife still buried in him. I follow, keeping my grip on the handle as he collapses to the floor beside Mom’s body.

“You stabbed me,” he gasps, looking more surprised than pained. “You fucking stabbed me.”

“Yes,” I reply, the strange calm still flooding my veins like ice water. “And I’m going to do it again.”

I wrench the knife free and bring it down again, this time into his chest. Blood sprays, warm droplets spattering my face, my hands, my shirt. It should horrify me, but it doesn’t. Instead, I feel nothing but pure satisfaction as Ray’s eyes widen, and his mouth opens and closes without sound, like a fish on a dock, gasping for its final breath.

Again and again, I plunge the knife into him—stomach, chest, throat. I almost lose count somewhere after fifteen, but I don’t stop until Ray’s body is still, his eyes as empty as my mom’s.

When it’s over, I sit between them on the blood-soaked carpet, the knife still clutched in my crimson hand. I should be crying. Should be screaming. Should be feeling something other than this strange, humming satisfaction.

I don’t know how long I sit there—minutes or maybe hours—before the apartment door opens again. I don’t turn, don’t try to hide or run. I just wait with my knife ready for whoever else might threaten what remains of my world.

“What the hell happened here?” A man’s voice, cultured and controlled, breaks the silence.

I look up to see a tall figure in an expensive suit standing in the doorway, his expression more calculating than shocked at the carnage before him.

“He killed my mom,” I answer simply. “So I killed him.”

The man studies me for a long moment. Then, instead of calling the police or running away, he crouches down to my level, careful to avoid the spreading pool of blood.

“Did you, now?” His tone is curious, assessing. “And how do you feel about that?”

The question is unexpected. Adults always tell you how to feel—they don’t usually ask. I consider it seriously.

“Good,” I answer honestly. “He deserved it.”

A smile spreads across his face, but it’s not warm, not kind, but appreciative. Like I’ve passed some test I didn’t know I was taking.

“What’s your name, son?”

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