The thick crimson liquid trickling down my hand is nothing compared to the pool around her. I’m not that remorseful about her inevitable death by my hand, but I should be. I used to know her. Pretty well too. But she’s the one who changed for the worse. It’s her fault.

It’s her fault

It’s her fault, I swear.

She was the one who became the monster in this tale. Not me, never me.

Yet as I look into her glassy eyes, she’s the perfect image of innocence. I chuckle at the irony. She was far from that when she was alive.

The words “I’m sorry” almost float off my lips, when I realize, No I’m not. She deserved this. It was her fault all this time.

A man comes up behind me quietly, and I flick my knife in the direction of the body.

When crying faces show up on the news later, it almost tempts the tears out, but I can’t let them go. No remorse, no regrets.

It was her fault.

But the more I keep telling myself the fact, the less it seems true. It’s better than the alternative though.

Her friends calls through the screen, “ Whoever you are, you sick person, we will find you, and you’ll get what’s comming to you.” The words pummel at my heart, trepidation settling into my gut, but I pay them no mind.

It was her fault

It was her fault

It was my fault?

No it was her fault.

And I’ll prove to everyone who believes otherwise that she was the one in the wrong, even if a few lives are lost. Whatever it takes.