This was it, the final rip in the fabric. He held the knife raised above his head, fingers trembling. The blood spatters on his plaid shirt looked like they belonged.

The man on the floor rolled onto his stomach, the tendons in his ankles slashed to ribbons. He crawled forward, scraping the dirt with his nails as he dragged himself forward.

No mercy.

He brought the knife down. The edge bit flesh, tearing into the man on the floor, striking, and then swiftly severing the spine. He screamed, animal, guttural, his words now an incoherent torrent. Blood poured from the side of his mouth. The death rattles were coming now, slowly, the floor carrying the hollow knocks to the man towering over him now.

The rattles came faster now. His ankles gushed blood, ink from a broken fountain pen.

The knife fell to the floor, blood drying quickly at the handle. Death had come, and made them whole.