I stopped in my path as I was walking down the street that night. It was getting bitterly cold, and across the street was a nice, thick blanket;
The night was dead and silent, so there was no need to check for traffic.
As I got closer to this blanket, it looked like it was already taken. I could see that a body was lying underneath it.
After standing there for a while, it was noticable that the body wasn’t breathing. It lay as dead as a rock. Suddenly, it hit me: I remembered why I was walking down the street in the first place; I was meeting a friend. Across the street was where we were supposed to meet. I had been late, and still, she wasn’t there.
*It would destroy me if that dead body was my friend..
I slowly and shakily lifted the blanket away and,
no! It’s not her! It’s not her!! Agh, who am I kidding?! It was her! Damn it all…fuck this world.
I saw a shadow coming from behind me. I turned around, and dressed in charcol grey, a sick man stood there before me. In his hand was a big, curved blade with fresh blood dripping off the tip of it. Without hesitation, I rapidly yanked it out of his hand, pushed him away from me as he tried to grab me, and slashed his throat.
He who kills, must be killed(that was my rage talking).
As the rage built up in me, I gave him a few slashes, pointless slashes, for he was already dead. Deserving one slash for each day I will grieve over my friend’s murder, would make the sick man nothing but chunks of meat in a pool of blood.
And there he lay, like so.
(This is not written from life experience.)