I knew it would end like this… You lying on the ground… Surrounded with blood… While I sit in the corner fake-crying, still staring at the bloody knife. But, I suppose for this story, we should start at the beginning.
It was a cold dark November night. You and I were having a sleepover party at my house. Your mom and dad didn’t like it when I went over to your house, but you begged them to let you come over to my place to spend the weekend. When they said yes, you were so delighted. You really shouldn’t have been. I watched as you spread your stuff out on the floor of my basement.
“Why are we sleeping down here? Couldn’t we have slept in your room?” you asked me.
“We could have, but I wanted to watch some scary movies. They wouldn’t be as terrifying if we were upstairs, in the light,” I replied quietly.
“Oh! Good idea then!” you sounded so happy. I hated it so much. Later that evening while you were almost asleep, I brought you a cup of hot chocolate.
“Thanks. I don’t want to sleep tonight. This will help,” you giggled. Ugh… That horrid sound. I waited until you went to the washroom to get my ‘supplies’. When you came back, I closed the door and made it quick. I quickly grabbed my knife and held it to your eye.
“W-What are you doing?!” You tried to scream.
“Shhhhhhhh. Don’t yell or I’ll make it hurt more,” I hissed in your ear. You nodded and kept quiet. Then I slowly lowered the knife and you sighed with relief, only to scream again when I jammed the knife into your abdomen.
“Shhhhhhhhhhhh. Keep quiet,” I hissed again.
“YOU’RE CRAZY!” you screamed. I got so mad. I raised the knife again and slowly rubbed the razor sharp edge against the skin of your neck. I did it again, harder this time. You screamed in pain until you couldn’t scream anymore. When you fell to the floor I took a step back. I started to fake cry and dropped the knife. I went to the corner and sat there with my knees up to my chest. My parents came down the stairs slowly.
“What happened?!” they both yelled.
“S- someone came in… And killed her,” I fake cried more. They then took me upstairs to my room. Later I went down and picked up the knife while smiling. I brought it up to my room and hid it with all the others I have used. I picked up a sheet of paper from my desk and scratched out the number 10 and wrote 11. I smiled and set the paper back down.
“No one will ever know,” I whispered as I looked at the pile of bloody knives hiding underneath some old clothes in my closet.