by Matthew David Roe

The child died. I meant for their parents to be the only ones in the queue, but the knife had told me it was cold. So cold. It had to rip, to slice, to gouge, and to stab. Now it dripped red, sticking to my fingers like crazy glue. It smiled at me, teeth glinting through the crimson splatter, and I grinned back.

I moved toward the window, wiping the fog from the weathered pane. I saw the blood on me, and that wonderfully warm smile of the knife. I took in a deep, shuddering breath. It was cold again.

published 1/21/2021