Page 2 of Assassin Anonymous

He holds the knife behind him, away from where I could effectively counter or knock it from his hand. He puts that veiny left forearm out like a shield. Knives are dangerous in the hands of idiots, but there’s nothing worse than someone who knows how to use one.

He takes small steps toward me now, gauging the distance. Hopping forward a little before stepping back, daring me to swing. I’m matching his stance, forearm out, wrist facing me so he can’t get at the tender part on the inside.

But I’m desperately outmatched.

What this guy doesn’t know is that I will do anything within my power to avoid killing him, even as the most savage part of me roars with hunger to do just that.

While he puts on a show, I take a moment to breathe. Inhale for four seconds, hold for four, breathe out for four, hold my lungs empty for four. It calms my nervous system enough that I can focus.

The coffeepot is useless, so when he decides to strike I throw it at his face. He turns and staggers slightly to protect his eyes, which lets me come around low on his dead side and go for the knife. If I can control it, I might be able to walk away from this with a few cuts, maybe some light puncture wounds, without taking it handle-deep in my chest.

I get one hand over his wrist, and the other over his hand, then shove my shoulder into him, creating distance and pushing the blade away from me. From here it’s chess at a hundred miles an hour. If I can throw my knee into the back of his, I can fold him to the ground and gain control. Get the knife arm down, use my leverage to keep it there.

But he’s strong. He yanks back hard, creating an opening, and then the two of us are struggling for the weapon.

My fingers slip on something wet and it’s harder to maintain a grip.

That’s when my experience with adrenaline betrays me, and time gets fuzzy.

A jumble of limbs and grunts, an eternity in an instant.

He pulls away, a look of shock on his face.

His hands are empty. So are mine. I know the knife didn’t land on the ground because I would have heard it. My heart is flooded with an acidic sense of regret.

Almost made it to a year.

I search him for the knife’s handle, hoping it’s a nonfatal wound. I can apply pressure, call an ambulance, tie off a tourniquet—whatever it takes to save this guy’s life.

Except I don’t see the knife anywhere.

And he’s looking down at my stomach.

I follow his gaze to where the knife is sticking out of my left side.

“Oh, thank god,” I say, gently touching the edges of the wound.

That’s when the pain sets in, crashing into me like a wave, sending me to the ground. I roll onto my side, so as not to push the knife in deeper. Every nerve in my body flares to life and screams directly in my ears.

That’s the thing about adrenaline—it’s the ultimate painkiller, but it doesn’t last very long.

He stalks toward me, and I think, This is it. I wonder what brought him here, how he found me, why he’s doing this. It’d be nice if he would monologue a bit, but he doesn’t seem the talkative type. I guess it doesn’t matter. You could fill a stadium with the people who wish me dead.

And even though I didn’t get to complete my steps, didn’t get to make amends—maybe this is what I deserve. Dying painfully on the floor of a church.

He squats in front of me and pats me down. He pulls the small, battered notebook out of my breast pocket, flips through it, and nods. Seemingly satisfied that he got what he came for, he leans down to my ear, so close I can feel the heat of his breath, and says, “Disappointing, kotenok.”

That just stings. Kozyol means “goat” but is pretty much Russian for “motherfucker.” Kotenok means “kitten.”

And also he stabbed me.

Just, overall this guy is a dick.

I start laughing, that my ego is my primary concern when I’m bleeding out, but I don’t think he hears it. I’m pretty sure he’s gone. I roll onto my back and stare at the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Through the pain, I am thankful.

Dying with my sobriety intact feels like something.

That said, maybe I still stand a chance. Blood is flowing around the knife but it’s not oozing, and I don’t smell shit, which means there’s a decent chance it missed my intestines. All I have to do is keep the knife in, let it hold things together until I can find some kind of help.