The girl kills her master.

It smelled like iron, sticky and warm in my palm and dripping down to the floor like milk and honey.

I licked my lips. They quivered. Biting my bottom lip, I wondered if my blood would smell the same as his. I had never smelled my blood before.

I couldn't break skin and sunk to the floor, staring. The knife's handle was rough and long, about a quarter of the length of the blade which was almost as long as my forearm. I remembered what it first smelled like when he gave it to me last month. Ice. The stone mountains of my home.

The blade had glinted beneath the florescent light of the department store. The set was the best in the market. He needed the best for his oval-shaped steaks.

Pristine. The wide flat steel had reflected the wonder in my eyes that day. Now, it was dark and lost in a scarlet sea of his soon-to-be lost life.

"You stabbed me! You fucking cunt!" He coughed. Blood shot forth from his lips and splattered his crisp white tee meeting the mottled cherry-red stain over his abdomen. His voice was tinny like branches snapping. I was sick of it.

I never wanted to hear his voice again.

"You're just gonna sit there? What the fuck is wrong with you?" He crawled up from his side to his knees and began to crawl towards me. The blood trailed behind him dutifully, just like everyone he had ever known.

Except me.

Climbing onto my feet again, I felt his blood begin to clot in my hand. With every blink, I took a step to him, craving more. The end. Death wafted around us and into my lungs like black fire.

"You're gonna-" He started just as I grabbed his slicked-back blond hair, yanked his head back, and slit his throat.

More splatters. That painted my brown bare tummy to create a new shade of life. It warmed my soul. I rubbed it in.

Gurgling. That broiled my insides as a reminder of that voice. When would it end? When would he shut the fuck up?

I threw his head forward. Hard. It hit against the concrete with a dull thud. It wasn't at all satisfying. For all the utter shit that brain had come up with...

I lifted my leg and stomped my foot down on the side of his skull. The crack sliced through the air. I sighed. My tattered soul mended.

Squeezing the knife, I knelt down near his shoes. Black Italian leather, almost as shiny as the blade of the knife, were scuffed on the sides from the concrete. It may have been out of habit, but I pulled out the cotton kerchief in my back jean pocket.

I wiped the knife's blade clean. My hands were next. My palms were a weird texture, like wet meat. After laying the knife down carefully by my feet, I scrubbed my tummy of the clotted blood that caked my skin.

Then, I twisted the shoes off, and swiped the kerchief back and forth along the sides until it was black and shiny again.

Better.

I stood up. Grateful.

The only sound I heard was my breathing.