I plunged the gray, blood covered dagger (no, my gray, blood covered dagger now) into his stomach before he could process what was happening to him. I barely felt the smallest trickle of warm, deep red liquid seeping onto my hand before I saw his eyes grow wider and wider, until they looked as if they could pop out of their sockets at any moment. That was my signal that he was beginning to understand what I had done to him, and what I was about to do. I gave him just enough time to process this, and the pain of the worst stomachache in existence. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but I didn’t give him the time. With all my might, I pulled the dagger upward: I shredded through his small intestines like tissue paper, chopped his liver like a steak, severed a lung like a wishbone, and ruptured his heart like a water balloon. All while slicing through one side of his ribs like many tough carrots. I brought the dagger up to the top of his trachea, held it steady for two seconds, and then yanked it out with completely unnecessary force. He opened his mouth a second time, and now something did come out: a cough. However, only half the cough constituted of air escaping his dying mouth. The other half was a sudden spurt of blood coming from his opened trachea. A few drops landed on my right cheek, and I slowly brought my hand up, only to quickly wipe the blood away with a disgusted expression on my face. He teetered on one foot for a moment, then fell on his side, with what little strength he had left, he rolled onto his back and lifted his right hand. Anger suddenly flared up inside of me again, anger I thought I had dissipated when I gave him that fatal gash. But no, that same anger was now consuming me like cursed fire. With a roar, I plunged my dagger hand into, and through, his hand with such force that my blow took his hand with my dagger all the way into the ground, where my dagger then pinned his hand. I looked to his face to see his final moment of life, and then the last of the color in his eyes were gone. I ripped the dagger from the ground, and back through his hand. I glanced at my dagger, almost completely covered with blood now. I then dropped it, and fell onto all fours. For a moment, I thought, no, knew, I was about to die. I didn’t know how, of whether it would be painless or agonizing. All I knew was that it was about to happen. And then, the moment passed. I realized death had not come for me; I was simply experiencing how it felt to be alone. Not the only-person-in-the-room alone, but truly, absolutely, being alone. There were only two people on earth that I knew I could truly rely on, and they had both perished in the past fifteen minutes. And one of the two had betrayed me and killed the other. I was all alone. I thought that by killing him I could undo what he has done, but of course that wasn’t going to happen. In fact, killing him just served to kill what was left of my soul. Imagined I would feel joyful at his death, but looking down at my blood stained hands, now cradling my dagger, I realized that my story, apparently overlooked by the almighty judge, would not be given the happy ending it deserved. With this thought in mind, I picked up my dagger, the last remnant of my, for all intents and purposes, old life. Holding it very tightly, as if someone were trying to snatch it from my cold, yet steady hand, I began to walk. To where, I don’t know. I’m hope I’ll know when I get there.