44
After a breakfast of burned toast I refuse to eat, he brings a notepad, a pen, and a knife with him into the room.
I can see the handle of the knife in a sheath attached to his belt.
Is this it? Is this where he kills me? It's a few days early, but maybe he's changed his mind after I ticked him off. I swallow hard and feel my knees quake as I sit on the mattress.
He drops the notepad and pen. Strolls into the middle of the room, beneath the lightbulb.
He removes the knife from his belt and lets the light catch the blade. It's one of those hunting knives. Wide, long, curved. A serrated edge. Made to cut through flesh.
I brace myself, fingernails digging into the dirty mattress.
I wait for him to walk forward. To slice me open.
He sits at the far end of the room, against the wall.
