Trevor Jones | Joe Zabel
Cascading down the walls in a crimson arc, hanging from the ceiling in globs. Gory stalactites dripping on my face, sticky, warm, comforting.
Blood coated hands, the long knife still clutched tightly.
The puddle on the floor oozes from the partially severed head like lava from an angry volcano.
I survey it all, savoring the warm glow of achievement and revenge.
My blood, unlike his, hums with life.
It feels good, very, very good.
At least it would if I’d had the courage to grab that road hog and drag him out.
Twice he cut in. Twice.
At the roundabout and then at the lights. No acknowledgment, not even a flick of an indicator.
If he does it again tomorrow I swear I’ll slaughter him right there.
Or I could just take the other route to town.