The Blade.

I had a dream where everyone was trying to kill me.

The few faces I remember, were those closest to me growing up — my mother, a few friends, my mother’s friends, etc. All of the people who I thought loved me, were plotting my death. They put together a plan to ambush me at the same time, and my childhood friend, Branden, was the bait. He coaxed me into meeting him at his grimy, one bedroom apartment, and buttered me up with vodka and flirting — my weaknesses, but also his. He started getting a little handsy, but I didn’t mind. Anything to distract him would work towards my benefit.

Because little did he know, I knew their secret.

We took another shot and fooled around some more, but I could sense the time was coming. Branden picked me up, wrapped my legs around him, leaned in for a kiss, and I stabbed him. Right in shoulder blade. One by one, people from my past came shooting through the door to kill me. And one by one, I stabbed them. In the shoulder blade, every time.

Feeling drunk on blood and vodka, I began to get a little careless — not waiting in the apartment for people anymore, but going out into the hallway. And then into the lobby. Stabbing anyone and everyone I saw. Then outside, on the sidewalk. The mailman. The neighbor’s dog. The elderly lady who lived upstairs. No feelings; no consequences.

But then, from a distance, I see a figure walking towards me. A man. Average height. Dark blonde hair. Electric blue eyes. With creases on his forehead, a sly smirk on his face.

My father.

I drop the knife and sprint toward him as fast as I can. He picks me up and we both start crying. I scream at him, “Where have you been? Why did you leave me? Why? Please don’t leave again. Please! I need you.”

In that instant, I feel the cold, sharp blade dive deep into my right shoulder blade. And everything goes dark.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

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