I don't think I've ever been prouder of myself for stabbing someone in the neck.
Truly, a gold medal moment in my ongoing career of questionable decision-making. The pen slid in like it was crafted for that exact purpose—sharp, merciless, and poetic in its own twisted way. I felt the resistance at first, the give of flesh parting under pressure, then the wet, sucking pop as it pierced through muscle and tendon, embedding deep into the carotid.
For one blissful, suspended instant, as her eyes widened in genuine shock, I thought I might actually live long enough to regret it—to wake up tomorrow with a hangover of guilt and a warrant for my arrest.
Then she clutched at the wound, her elegant fingers splaying wide, blood slick and dark as ink began spilling through the gaps, dripping in thick rivulets down her throat and pooling in the hollow of her collarbone.
She staggered back across the bed, her knees buckling slightly.
