The son came running at the noise, bursting through the door with questions dying on his lips as he saw his father's body twitching on the floor. He turned on Mira, reaching for her, screaming for help...
She was faster.
He was large, soft, slow from years of indulgence. She was small and starved and absolutely unafraid.
The knife found his stomach first. Then his chest. Then his throat. She stabbed him over and over, her arms moving in mechanical rhythm, until the wife's screams finally penetrated the red haze clouding her vision.
The woman stood in the doorway, her face a mask of horror.
Then she ran. Screaming. Alerting the neighbors.
They dragged Mira through the streets like an animal.
