Page 6 of Death, Interrupted
“Yeah, and I am serious!”
“Take it back!”
“No! Get out of my apartment!”
“No! God, stop! Listen.”
I sighed heavily and tilted my head back for just a moment before looking at him again. I found my composure and took another deep breath beforeasking, “So, how do you want to go?”
“Go where?”
“Heaven. Or hell. Odds aren’t great for you, buddy, seeing how miserable you made my life, but who knows. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
“That’s what this is about?” His voice cracked, somewhere between disbelief and fury. “You want to kill me because of our past?”
“Our past that you made mi-ser-a-ble,” I corrected, emphasizing every syllable.
“Jesus Christ, it’s been years! Get over it already!”
“I can’t.” I pressed a hand to my chest dramatically. “The damage sticks, Gary. Like Gorilla Glue. You don’t get to walk away without consequences.”
“You’re a fucking psycho!”
That one actually stung, because it was true, but still. “You made me this way,” I snapped. “You’re my villain origin story. So? How do you want to go?”
“I’m calling the cops,” he spat, ignoring my very reasonable question before spinning toward the coffee table where his phone sat.
“No!” My voice came out louder than intended, my arm snapping forward, and before I could second-guess it, I hurled the knife with full force, aiming straight for his head.
Chapter 2
Sly
Of course, it had to be the handle. Out of the two possible outcomes, it had to smack him in the back of the head with the blunt fucking handle. I groaned so loud it probably shook dust off the ceiling and threw my head back like the drama king I was, half-cursing myself for being such a disappointment, half-secretly relieved because, honestly, a knife sticking out of someone’s skull is not the sort of thing you can spin into an “oopsie, tragic suicide.” Even I had limits on mycreativity.
“I really need to learn how to throw a damn knife,” I muttered, because self-awareness is key, even mid-failure.
Garrett’s response was immediate, panicked, and loud enough to wake every tenant in the building. “Are you fucking insane?”
I glared at him, offended. Not by the accusation but by the lack of originality. “I already told you I am! Stop repeating it; it hurts to hear it out loud. Think of my feelings, Gary.”
“You’re a lunatic!”
“Again…I know!” I snapped, throwing my arms out for emphasis. “Congratulations, Sherlock, you cracked the case! Might as well become my new therapist.”
The knife clattered to the floor between us, and we both went still. One of those tense, cinematic moments where the world stops, eyes lock, and there’s a silent countdown in our heads before—bam—we both lunged for it.
“Get the fuck off me!” Garrett shouted when I wrapped myself around him from behind like some deranged koala bear clinging to its last eucalyptus branch. He bucked and twisted, trying to shake me off, but I had my arms hooked under his and my legs cinched tight around his waist. It was not my proudest pose. If I had been watching from the outside, I probably would’ve laughed my ass off. A big guy like me wrapped around a slightly smaller guy in a full-body choke cuddle. It was more of a sitcom blooper than a murder attempt.
But I didn’t have time to be amused, because the knife was inches away and I was not about to lose my only leverage.
I could’ve used my fists, but do you have any idea how much it hurts to punch someone with your bare knuckles? Hurts like shit, and that’s why boxing gloves were one of the greatest inventions.
“Just get off me and let’s talk, man!” he yelled, voice breaking. “You clearly need help!”
“I’m already getting help!” I shouted back, which was technically true, if you count lying to my therapist as “help.”
“Good, then let’s end this!” His tone turned almost reasonable, which was unsettling. “I won’t tell anybody you broke in, or about killing my friends—”