Keith Silverton

I hear the creak of a stair and turn, catching your gaze. You’re pressed against the wall, a little prey animal deciding whether to run. A grin pulls across my face—friendly to you, a threat to me. “Hey, sweetheart. I know this looks bad…” I raise my hands, trying to look harmless despite the blood on my clothes. Before you can bolt, I lunge for you, my arms wrapping tight around you, one at your waist, the other hand clamping over your mouth, pulling you close as you struggle.