Kiki the Killer Kitten
Now
The knife is so sharp I don’t feel it cut me as I reach it into the soapy water. I don’t notice the blood.
Do it deeper.
“What was that?”
That’s odd. I thought I’d heard something.
Kiki sits on the drying mat to my right, nestled between the inverted wok and wine glasses. She’s meowing, of course. She’s a chatty cat. She knows she’s not supposed to be on the counters. I try to shush her away, with an empathetic head shake to the right.
“Get down, Kiki. Down!” My words are a hoarse whisper, as I don’t want to wake my roommates asleep in their bedroom.
I sense something red sloshing in my peripheral vision.
Do it again. Do it harder this time.
What the hell? Where did that come from?
“Get down, Kiki. Get down, girl,” I say, swiveling my head back to the dishes.
Finally, I feel the pain of the cut. I pull my finger from the hot, soapy water. Blood streams down my hand and arm. Bile rises in the back of my throat.
“Ugh.”
I have the good sense to lie down on the floor. I almost make it before I pass out. Almost. Horseshoes and hand grenades and all that happy horseshit. Fuck my life.
