So there we stood, silently.

Our eyes locked on each others as my dead best friend

lay between us. The blood from her head began to escape quicker than I had
anticipated. The crimson tides effusive force inched far too close for comfort
towards my satin heels. I took two small steps back, eyes still on the culprit. Mirror
neurons fired in his brain as he followed my lead and, too, stepped back from my
besties internal matters. The thick air that filled the abandoned factory infiltrated
our lungs with each breath. Bounteous particles of dust and asbestos congregated
in all four lungs, setting up shop for a malignant metastasis in years to come.

I took another step back. The murderer followed.

We continued this dance around death for a few minutes, our tango of lost life. He
opened his pale lips as if to say something, but closed them abruptly. His eyes
shifted from mine for a brief moment towards the bullet hole is my dead friends
skull. His vision ricocheted from his crime and connected back to my view. Pupils
dilated and eyes wide open, his mouth hung agape once again. I was sure we would
sit in drab silence forever, but this time he spoke.

I thought she was you.

Im well aware of that, Mr. Sanders.

Our words too calm for the crime that had just taken place. In my peripheral vision I
realized I had missed my cue. Red rushed past my heels that sat like dams. My selfabsorbed mind could only conjure up one question, does blood stain satin? Already
in the midst of bloodshed, I stepped towards Mr. Sanders.

But me or her, youre still a murderer, I insisted with ruby red lips.

But at least if it had been you, I would have gotten paid.

Endearing, really.

I could see every muscle in his body tighten as my steps neared his trembling flesh.
The gun sat quietly in the darkness of one of the rooms four corners. It seemed now
the only weapon Mr. Sanders had was persuasion. I stepped over my friends corpse
and stood a few inches from the man who had wanted me dead just moments
before.

And I only wanted you dead for the money, nothing personal. He spoke quickly, as
if time were running out.

To be honest, I couldnt really be that upset. He wasnt the only henchmen my exhusband had sent to destroy me. Getting half of his billion dollar estate and winning
his stupid mutt in the divorce triggered something in Fredrick I would never have
imagined existed. If I would have known he could be this cruel, I might have actually
liked him during our eight year, prosaic romance.

I inched closer yet to the still shuddering Mr. Sanders.

Do you know what I need?

What? His voice shook.

A drink.

What?

Care to join me?

I didnt let him answer as I marched out of the room, leaving perfect size 6
footprints in the bright pattern of best friends blood.

I turned the corner and leaned against a large pillar. Mr. Sanders sat in the room a
few moments, undoubtedly questioning my motives and replaying the scene in his
head. But within a matter of seconds he was facing me, his back against some
dusty, mold ridden wall as he lit up a cigarette. I pulled the elastic from my ponytail
and watched his eyes follow the movement of my long, blonde hair.

A few minutes ago I was contemplating what to do with dear old Mr. Sanders.
Should I seduce him, befriend him, kill him? All were plausible considering one of
Fredricks workers had fallen victim to each scenario. But now, as I watched his
eyes entranced in my luxurious waves, I had arrived at my conclusion.

I placed my right hand on my thigh, pulling my little black dress up a few inches. Mr.
Sanders eyes widened with amusement, his trembling hands were finally steadied.
I continued to pull at the material until a flask was revealed between garter and
milky flesh. Mr. Sanders licked his lips as I pulled out the metal and placed the
spout to my lips. After a few swigs I passed the liquor to my ex-husbands
accomplice. He copied my swigs in both number and duration, and then rested his
eyes on mine. I could almost see the delusional, perverse fantasies dancing in his
head.

I inched closer in gory heals. No time was wasted as he placed his left arm around
my waist and pulled me tightly into him. He began kissing my neck with wondering
hands. I tried to step back but he pulled me closer still.

Mr. Sanders, the words fell from my lips with seduction and betrayal.

He loosened his grip, intrigued, and I stepped back.

You got another surprise under there? He asked as his eyes fell to the hem of my
dress.

As a matter of fact, I do.

My lips folded into a mischievous half smile. I reached my right hand over to my left
thigh. I slid my dress up, slipped my fingers between skin and garter, once again.

What is it?

I pulled out a small scalpel, by the handle, and rested the blade up the length of my
arm, hidden from view. With furrowed eyebrows Mr. Sanders stepped forward in
hopes of catching a glimpse. I pushed him back against the rotting wall, hard. He
looked perplexed, aroused and worried in one humorous expression. A thousand
thoughts were birthed per second. They tumbled on low within that meager brain of
his. I saw each one race just behind murderous eyes as small beads of sweat began
to form within each pore of his forehead. I leaned forward and bit his lip, holding it
tightly between my teeth until I tasted blood. A tiny whimper resonated from his
vocal folds and fell from his quivering mouth. He pushed me back with one hand
and held the other at his wound. His eyes darted back and forth between mine. He
curled the fingers that sat uneasy at my chest. His hands began to tremble again as
he stared hard into my eyes. He could see my thoughts, too, perfectly complex and
neatly aligned. Should I seduce him, befriend him, kill him? His eyes squinted as he
tried to predict my next move. His hand shifted steadily from his lips and reached to
his pocket. As his fingers dug deep, then began to escape, I made my move.

I jolted my dominant hand upwards and jerked my elbow to my right. Palm side
facing Mr. Sanders, the scalpel slid across his skin and slit his throat before he could
use whatever was in his pocket to finish his initial job. He fell to his knees with blood
rushing past both hands that grasped the grotesque, yet effective, method of
murder. The mundane gasping lasted about a minute until he fell to the floor, finally
dead. I leaned over and pulled at his fingers. All that sat tightly in his fist was a
crushed box of cigarettes.

I stood above my lifeless assailant and dusted off my dress. I brushed my blonde
locks over my shoulder and looked at the crime scene. My lips pursed as my eyes
connected with the molding wall, the backdrop to my crime. The blood that had
sprayed from killer, turned victims throat and up the amoeba inhabited drywall
seemed to stretch much further than anticipated.

I turned from the atrocious display of murder and deceit and began to walk away,
leaving perfect size 6 footprints in the vibrant shade of strangers liquid vitals.

End