He thrust his hand back.
It wasn’t big, the switchblade. Six inches at most.
But fuck did it hurt when he stabbed me in the side.
I shoved him away.
He stumbled forward.
I looked down.
The handle of the knife stuck out from my shirt. Blood bloomed like roses against the fabric.
I reached down and grabbed the handle, feeling the blade in my gut. I gritted my teeth as I pulled it out.
Kelly said, “Leave. Carter. Please leave.”
I threw the knife on the ground, my blood glistening on metal.
The wound began to close.
I lifted my head slowly.
The tattooed man took a step back.
He said, “Your eyes, what the fuck is wrong with your eyes—”
“You should have told me your name.”
I rushed him as the fog thickened.
Kelly said, “Carter.”
Kelly said, “Carter, stop.”
Kelly said, “Carter, you need to stop.”
I lifted my head.
He wasn’t there.
The man below me whimpered. I looked back down at him, hearing Sarah screaming, begging for me to stop, to please just stop, please, please, please. My hands shook. Two fingers on my right hand were broken. The knuckles on both were split and coated with blood.
Some of it was mine.
Most wasn’t.
The man’s face was swollen and slick. He was babbling, telling me he was sorry, he was so sorry, man, don’t hurt me anymore, please don’t hurt me, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, your eyes, your eyes, why do they look like that, why are they purple?
The fight had drained out of him. All that remained was fear.
He was afraid of me.
I looked back up at the crowd.
They were horrified.
A few had their hands over their mouths.