I killed him.
           He didn't even know he was dead when he fell to the floor, a rapidly cooling, lifeless heap.
           I had my reasons. And I felt bad before, during, and after. So don't assume I'm some remorseless murderer who just enjoys the feel of warm blood on his hands, the feel of a life seeping away in that all-important liquid.
           The remorse is there, but I've learned to ignore it.
           I don't bother ignoring the blood though. Maybe it's long buried instinct, maybe I'm just sick, but I do like that part. More in the predator and prey sense than murderer and victim.
           My left hand, my knife hand, was covered in blood, as was my knife. Thick enough to be a dark crimson, instead of just a wet, reddish sheen. Fresh as it was, the metallic smell was still strong.
           I transferred the knife to my right hand and turned my left palm up, watching the dark liquid pool over my life and heart lines. My head line was already covered and no longer visible.
           Bizarre irony. Blood already overriding rational thought and moving to invade my life and what little love I had.
           As I licked the blood from my hand, I mused, in some abstract way in the back of my mind, that I was returning control to the mind. A crazy, foolish thought, since I knew it was just predatory instinct, but reassuring nonetheless.
           When my hand and knife were clean, I returned the knife to its hidden sheath and leaned back on my heels to observe the unmoving corpse that had once thought me a friend.
           Too bad.