MicroHorror

“From the gates of Heaven I curse thee to Hell, to die by the hand that you love so well.”

Her eyes were mad and she coughed up blood. I crouched down and smiled at her, casually wiping my knife on the hem of her dress.

“Language, miss. Language.”

Her dying breath rattled in her lungs and she slumped to the floor. Her eyes stared at me, empty. Whatever. She deserved it.

The house is quiet, dark. Jane and I had been happy here, once. Until she ruined it. Her and her easy eyes and short skirts. I’m sorry, Jane. I’m so sorry.

It’s so damn dark. It’s been too long. I don’t remember things as well as I used to. A board creaks.

I wasn’t moving. That wasn’t me. I wait.

Silence.

Slowly, I creep forward.

Silence.

A flash of white glimmers in the shadows as I stumble across the threshold into our old bedroom. The boards creak again. There’s someone else here.

Something moves in the darkness in front of me. Someone else is here. In my house. Our house.

Not for long.

The knife is still in my hand. So close. Neither of us is moving.

Silence.

I pull back my arm, take three steps forward and lunge. Red-hot pain blossoms in my arm and in my abdomen. It’s cold.

Silver light spills through the window. Moonlight gleams off of silver and I can see myself in the mirror. I look surprised.

There’s a hand sticking out of the mirror. My hand. Holding my knife. The knife is sheathed in my gut and the mirror just gleams, unbroken. I don’t know why I look so darned surprised.

The moonlight fades. All I can feel now is the rough boards beneath me. The shadows whisper.

“You never loved her. You never loved me. You only loved yourself.”