Sniffle in the Dark

Once I heard this sniffling, you know? Hoodie, jeans, rough smile under scruff I could rub my hands on in bed.

Snuff, snuff, snuff, sniffle. Fucking obnoxious, is what it was. I heard it. I heard it and I gotta be honest, I heard blood.

I stabbed him and I walked off the train. I left him for dead and they never found me. I never killed before or since. I don’t even know if he’s dead, but that blood — its warmth, you know? Dark like wine, or, or like molasses on a hot summer day, I guess. Smile. I’ve never seen it, but that’s what comes to mind because it sticks man, it sticks to your soul. The blood, I mean. His voice drops to a whisper, as I scramble to write his words. The blood is still on me. He stares at his hands and smiles, opening and closing them. A heh of laughter, full of dust? But maybe I just need more, maybe only molasses cleans molasses, you know?

I’ve thought about it. Killing. I loved it. And hated it. He looks out the window, thinking, forgetting me. The scent of blood almost made me gag, I was so surprised. I wondered, I wondered if I’d ever feel like this again? So distant, yet every inch of skin on edge. It felt like I had died, and I was my skin, you know? Not in a creepy way, just like — well I felt everything. I was. I was so turned on, if I can call it that. That smile again, half teeth, half feral, half kind and worried and a bit lost. I don’t know how else to explain it. I was. Everything was real and fell apart in that moment. He’s dead, friend. He’s dead. Do you understand? I took a life. I took a life, stole it, stole it dead. He’s dead.

I just walked out of the train and he’s dead.

He looks away, fiddles with his hands, gets up, and leaves.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.