Best friend

The sound of heavy panting echoed across the abandoned place. Two people, him and myself, facing each other; threatening stares, blood and wounds. Our postures resemble those of wild animals about to hunt their prey; and at any moment now, one of us will pounce on the other, for a fight to the death. My right, bleeding hand is holding a broken glass I picked up from the floor a couple of stories up. Judging from the pain in my abdomen, my guess is that a couple of ribs got fractured because of the two-story fall we just stood from. Even in this situation, my mind still can find the time to get surprised by the fact that neither of us is dead already. By this time, though, I have resigned. Something tells me this is the end of one of us, if not both.

The adrenaline is making me more aware. The walls and the floor rumble as we move carefully. I can feel my foot moving debris as I step sideways. He’s holding a kitchen knife, and I can listen its edge cutting through the atmosphere. If he makes a move, I’ll be dead. If I do a stupid move, I’ll be dead. Even if I end up nailing my attack, I don’t want him to die. He’s my best friend. He has been like a brother to me. My mind keeps recalling those hard and difficult times as well as all those awesome moments together. Through his parents’ deaths; all those pictures of his wedding. And yet here we are: in an abandoned building fighting for our lives. The good man versus the bad one, only God knows who’s who. I wanted the rumors about him to be lies, I even stood up for him when people blamed him of abusing those girls. Yet again, here I am. What should I do? What is the real answer? The girl upstairs is already dead, why should I bother?