Please [Don't] Believe Me

The Knife

Blood. That was the first thing he could smell. Mark was breathing heavily, his fist clenched around something.

Mark couldn't see anything at first, his vision dark and blurry as if he was looking through a clouded glass. Blinking several times, his vision soon cleared.

Mark's hand began to shake as he saw the blood that still dripped from the blade that was clenched in his hand. Releasing it, the knife fell to the floor, consequently making the only noise that could be heard through the entire house.

Mark's eyes traveled to the floor. Blood coated the base boards, along with tufts of blonde. Mark's heart began beating out of his chest. Who had he hurt? Were they okay? What happened? Why didn't he remember?

Mark followed the blood trail behind the counter.

A scream ripped from his throat, finding every part of his body tense and collapse all at once. Mark buckled to his knees, letting out another scream.

"NO!!" He wailed, his body shaking as the sobs escaped.

Mark's hands desperately stroked the blood stained fur of his beloved dog, Chica. Her once lively body drained of the energy that used to course through her veins. Her eyes closed, blood matting her once beautiful fur.

Mark stroked her face and held her in his arms, sobbing as he rocked back and forth.

"Wake up!!" He sobbed, burying his face in her fur, "Please, Chica, wake up..."

Mark looked at the knife, coated with Chica's blood. The knife that was no doubtedly used to take her life. The knife that he used to take her life.

Rushing over, he grabbed the knife and threw it across the room in rage, lodging it in the wall as he let out an anguished scream. Mark collapsed to the floor once again, screaming, crying, sobbing.

Mark pressed his back against the counter and pulled his knees to his chest. His hands tangled themselves in his hair, pulling, as if it would pull out whatever had made him kill the innocent dog.

"WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?! WHY?! WHY HER?!" Mark screamed at the top of his lungs. He stood quickly, grabbing a glass from the table and throwing it to the floor.

"I told you it would be a busy day, Mark," the familiar voice rang through his head.

"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!!" Mark screamed at it, as loud as his lungs would allow him. His voice filled with so much anger, so much hate, so much pain.

He fell again, letting his body fall where it may. Mark sobbed, tucking his face in the crook of his arm to avoid the reality he would soon face.

****

Mark opened his eyes, finding he was on the kitchen floor. Had he fallen asleep...? Passed out?

Looking at his hands, he found there was no longer any blood covering his hands.

'Was it a dream...?' He wondered.

Mark noticed he was wearing different clothes than what he had on. Eyes widening, he ran to where Chica's body had once lay. Not a trace of blood or fur, and no sign of Chica.

"CHICA?!" Mark screamed out, sprinting around the house, searching for his beloved dog.

'Outside!! She must be outside!!' He told himself.

Sprinting out the door to his back yard, he found it was empty. "CHICA?!" He called, praying for the familiar bark he had always heard.

Looking to the corner of his yard, there lay a patch of dirt and a shovel.

"Ch-Chica...?"

Walking forward on shaking legs, he noticed her collar setting on top of the dirt. Mark fell beside the grave, sobbing, taking the collar and hugging it to his chest.

Mark sobbed, coming to the conclusion that this was no dream.

Chica was dead. She was gone.

And Mark was the one that killed her.