Page 47 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer

I stab again, this time into his ribs. The blade hits resistance. Bone, maybe. Something cracks. Not just in him—but in me, too.

I feel it.

Like the ocean floor has given way for the endless march of magma that will soon ooze through it. Unyielding and unstoppable.

He tries to grab me, to roll us again. His hand finds my hair and jerks.

I scream, wrenching free.

Then I bring the knife down—again, and again—into whatever I can reach. Chest. Shoulder. Neck.

Each strike lands with a sickening crunch or a wet give. Blood coats the handle, coats my hands, but I don’t let go.

I twist and slam my foot into his side, shoving him off me with everything I have left. He collapses, half-conscious, twitching. But I’m already crawling on top of him.

His eyes are wide. Pleading now.

It’s far too late for that.

I channel the image of my mother—sixteen, broken, bleeding, left to suffer in silence. I channel the sound of Mariela’s voice when she said goodbye.

And I let go.

I stab. And stab. And stab again.

Again.

Again.

Each time, my whole body shakes with it.

My scream tears from my throat, ragged and raw.

My arms burn. My fingers cramp. The knife slips, and I grip harder, pressing down like my life depends on it.

I stab until I can’t feel my hands.

Until the world blurs through tears and blood.

Until the only sound left in this filthy building is the hollow echo of my sobs.

And then, finally, I stop.

Not because I want to.

But because I can’t lift the blade anymore.

His body slumps. Limbs slack. Mouth open. Eyes vacant.

Still.

The knife clatters from my hand, and everything is quiet.

So quiet.

Not just the absence of noise—but a strange, weightless kind of quiet. Like I’m suspended in something too vast to name.

The air feels light. The edges of the world blur. Everything that usually hums inside my head—lists, numbers, rehearsed arguments, intrusive loops—is gone. It’s just me and the silence.

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