I feel disoriented. As though someone is spinning me around blindfolded to make fun of the way I stumble to my knees. There must be something I’m missing. I certainly don’t know why I let him lean even closer to me, his own movements causing my knife to press against his throat and break the skin. The scent of his blood melts into me, tantalizingly sweet. His lips find my ear, and he asks, “Where do you think I’ll go once I’m dead?” And then it’s my turn to remember.
