I know you are not a killer. But as I watch you pace the length of our tiny kitchen, a sharpened blade in hand, I begin to doubt if I know who you are at all. Just last night, I had used that same knife to prepare supper while you stood beside me stirring the pot and making stupid jokes. Now, with that twisted expression scrambling your features and the harsh kitchen lighting emphasizing the red that rims your eyes, you are a stranger to me. “Look, I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to talk”, you say. I want to laugh at the contradiction between your words and the knife in your hand, but I know better than to open my lips. Instead, I stand rigid and watch you step closer to my position in the living room. At first, I used to love the open concept of this apartment; how no walls separated the living room from the dining room and the kitchen. It always made the place seem so much more spacious. Now, as I glance around and see that there’s nowhere left to hide, I suddenly hate this design. Even if I managed to get to the front door, I know you always keep it padlocked, the key in your pocket the only way in and out of this place. I know you weren’t always like this, but when your mind grew paranoid and you began to doubt me, you turned this home into a cage. “O- okay we can talk”, I reply. My voice comes out a stuttering mess, so I clear my throat and try again. “Just put the knife down and we can talk.” You ignore my plea to drop the knife and stalk closer. “Who were you talking to? Who got you the phone?”, you query. The questions press through my skin like needles; I don’t know how to answer them without angering you. “My mother. I was talking to my mother”, I decide to say. “Okay, but where did you get the phone? I know you haven’t left the house so you couldn’t have gotten it on your own”. I know that there is no way I can answer that question without making you angry enough to get violent again. How do I explain that the postman slipped it through the letter-hole this morning? How do I tell you that I spilled everything through the thin sliver in the door to his listening ears on the other end? When I don’t answer, you grow infuriated and your steps engulf the floor in angry strides, far quicker than I can comprehend. Within seconds you have a hand wrapped around my throat and you slam me into the wall so hard that my vision swims with little black dots. In this moment I am in too much shock to even register the pain fracturing through my skull. “Answer. The. Question”, you spit, hot breath choking the air around me. Though I can’t breathe with that hand of yours on my neck, I feel my eyes wandering first to the knife in your left hand and then to the front door, barely 4 feet to my right. I think that the lack of oxygen is messing with my brain and skewing my vision, but when I blink and look again, I know that what I am seeing is real. In your haste to confront me when you walked in and caught me on the phone, you had forgotten to lock the door; your instinct to gravitate to violence and sharp objects trumping all else. As I slip in and out of consciousness, I see that the door is opened the tiniest bit, enough to let in light from the hallway. A chance like this has never been possible before. You’ve never been this stupid, this reckless, or this careless in the past. Now that freedom is within reach, I see everything so much clearer. I see what I have to do. I kick out hard with my legs, aiming to hit any part of your body that I can. When I come in contact with your shin and you loosen your grip, I take the opportunity to strike you hard in the nose with the heel of my palm. When I hear the crunch of bone and your hand leaves my neck to tend to the damage, I grab the long- forgotten knife from your other hand. Without even contemplating my actions or properly aiming, I brace one hand on your shoulder and push the knife through your torso with as much force as I can muster. The resistance of your muscles and flesh don’t deter me from pushing harder, the taste of freedom and the adrenaline in my veins overriding my every doubt. Your eyes widen, and your lip’s part but you are in so much pain that no words come out. In your moment of vulnerability, I think I see the old you in your expression, begging me for mercy. But as you stumble back and lean against the couch for support, I no longer care about who you are or who you once were. All I care about is that open door that offers me what I desperately want. Freedom. Your grip on the couch loosens as you crumble to the floor, eyes fluttering shut. The color has bleached from your skin, and you look as fragile as a folded paper crane lying there in a heap. I drop the knife and stagger to the door. My hand hooks on the handle and for the first time in a long time, the door opens when I pull on it. I look back at you one last time and a part of me pities the bloodied mess I see. Despite everything, I know you were never strong enough to do more than bruise and batter my body. I know you are not a killer. But maybe I am.