this is me wondering what it might feel like to take a life from various perspectives (is this mature content flagged)?
1. Knife: everyman
He shivered, nervously eyeing the silver blade in his hand. The sweat on his palms made him feel dirty and his trembling betrayed the fear that gripped him. He wiped his brow and shivered again. He drew in a deep shuddering breath, "I have to do this," he sighed. The feeble whisper sounded weak even to him. The cold hand of conscience touched the back of his neck and intoned dreadfully in his ear, "You can still turn back, you could run, hide, forgive, forget, you could-"
He howled back at that wretched voice, shuddering and sweating, tears falling thick and fast, "no," he whimpered, words cloying with despair,
"I have to do this." His sobs subsided, his breathing steadying.
The doorbell rang.
The knife seemed to squirm in his clammy grip, like a snake stirring at the scent of fresh prey. Through gritted teeth he growled with deathly finality,
The world stuttered into a slow motion blur, colours fading out, contrast exaggerated. The knife wriggled again. Its blade appeared to distort the space around it, sparkling and drawing the eye nauseatingly. It almost seemed to vibrate in his hand in anticipation.... or was that just his hands shaking again?
With a scream of anguished resolve he threw open the door and, howling bestially with raw, terrified violence, he bellowed with abandon.
He saw in the second before he shut his eyes the shock in those eyes, that mouth open in dumbfounded surprise, that look of fear transforming to horror and confusion. Then he saw nothing, his eyes shielded from that terrible sight as the knife with a sickening thud punched through those ribs and into that heart.
His knuckles were white, his hand clenched around the hilt of the knife as if clinging to it for survival. The knife jumped in his grasp, once, twice, three times, the shining blade dancing and leaping with the final beating of the heart, beating he heard as a deep, unbearable toll of doom. A final rasping breath escaped those lips, one last rattling gasp, the blade shivered and was still.
His lip quavered, his mind screaming out to run, to escape this hideous nightmare, but he couldn't let go of the knife, his knife, his haven, his savior. He tugged on the hilt. It was stuck. He pulled harder and harder flinging the corpse around like a ragdoll, till with a sickening squelching wrench, the blade tore free.
It was stained crimson, gouts of blood spilt from the yawning gash in that chest, fountains of claret spattering his face. He didn't move. He let the vile deluge bathe him in his guilt. Slowly he turned his head.
"Hey, knife," he said.
"Hey, you're covered in blood."
The knife twitched.
"Are you hungry little knife?"
The knife twitched again.
"Here, let me feed you."
The knife thirsted on his blood until he was run bone dry.