He didn't feel any particular rage burning through his veins or pulsing in his head. That day was just an ordinary day. An average day in which he felt nothing more than the ghost of his usual annoyance.

He sat on his bed, soaking in the typical daytime silence and dwelling on the single disturbance that interrupted the quiet. His usual sitting position, a little slumped and, in this case, cross-legged, started to straighten. This happened hardly voluntarily, and for the most part, gradually.

There was a thought working at the back of his mind. It was no more than a minor itch in the front. Still, it caused him to straighten, then stand.

He stood just off-center on his bedroom floor. The steady sound in his ears stole all his focus. He did not notice the change in position. Like the thought, that sat in the back of his mind.

A moment of hesitation lasted on his feet before he started shuffling across the dirty gray carpet. The door existing somewhere between the bedroom and the hallway had disappeared from his filtered consciousness. He passed through a passageway of sordid walls, meanwhile the heavy sound of metal on solid wood grew louder, faster.

Yet, his heartbeat would not rise nor falter as he progressed toward the opposite side of his house. Nothing caught up in his heart. Not even when he crossed paths with the shadow stretching from the next doorway. As if an extension of its long, bony arms, the shadow raised a pointed blade and dropped it…again and again and again.

He entered despite the wretched shape clawing at him from the doorway. The room's permanent gloom managed to mock the daylight that greeted him, and she stood in front of the single window.

She wore his father's dark clothes, keeping her back turned to him. Each time her arm lifted the dangerous blade, he saw the red ribbon trailing from her wrist. His eyes pinned themselves to the thin ribbon. A sickly sweet scent filled his nostrils. He was right behind her now.

The hot, sticky smell didn't even make his nerves flinch.

Her steady chopping paused. She set down her knife, then turned to face him.

There was little lapse between snatching up the knife and sticking it into the soft spot below her ribcage. All the while, he remained detached. Any immediate reaction on her face slipped past recognition.

The air around him heated, while the stickiness threatened to suffocate him. She loomed over him, more sinister than the shadow guarding the door.

She shrieked at him. "You little monster!" He couldn't breathe, but he was aware of everything around him. Except for the knife. He had lost track of that.

He flew out the door, stepping only once in the blood he had spilled. She screamed his name, though all he heard was the knife falling down on the chopping block. That same repetition in his ears.

His feet pounded above crunching leaves and snapping twigs. He struggled for breath, but it was not the sticky atmosphere that continued to steal it. Only the running took his breath away, and soon the pounding started to fade from his ears.

He didn't feel anything at all.