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But as I plunged the knife into my abuser over and over and over, my muscles screaming in pain, my arm getting harder and harder to lift as I kept stabbing, I could suddenly relate to them.
I could see how something could strip away your humanity and return you to your animalistic roots.
“Ahhh!”
The sound of a long, continuous scream filled my ears for a long time until I realized where it was coming from.
Me.
I’d been screaming as I stabbed Warren.
Over and over.
The sound, and realization, seemed to snap me out of the strange stupor I’d been in.
And I looked down, seeing my arms dripping in blood, the amount of it getting heavier the further down my arm my gaze went.
Until I saw my hands.
Completely saturated.
I wasn’t even sure how I was still holding onto the knife.
I stared at it, uncomprehending for a moment, until my eyes kept moving down.
And saw him.
Warren.
Or, rather, what used to be Warren.
Because there was no way he was still alive.
He looked like a horror movie.
Soaked in blood.
Bits of flesh spilling out of the gaping holes the knife had ripped through his shirt.
My stomach roiled as I saw his stomach. His intestines visible from where I was sitting.
A sick sound escaped me as I flung backward off of him.
I’d done that?
I’d stabbed him like that?
Enough to rip open his guts?
No.
No.
That wasn’t me.
Nothing could make me do that.
Nothing except…
