As she stared out the kitchen window, she thought about the events which had led to this moment in her life. Could she blame her father abandoning her at the age of four? Statistically, children from broken homes were always more likely to commit random acts of violence than those with so-called ‘stable parents.’ Or so she’d heard. What about Kevin Turner, that spotty 15 year old who’d rejected her invite to the prom in front of their entire Spanish class? That had been the first time she’d felt such blinding rage, that urge from the pit of her stomach to slap that stupid, lop-sided grin off his pale, pimply face. Or what about that guy at the supermarket earlier who’d short changed her by a whole £2.57, and then, when she’d raised the issue with the manager, vehemently denied it. Could anyone blame her for throwing a punch? What a knob.
But no. Really, it was Matthew’s fault entirely. She had asked him again and again to please, don’t leave your mouldy cereal bowls around the front room, to please, pick up those dirty socks which you’ve failed to slam-dunk into the laundry bin, to please, don’t let the bin overflow with McCoy’s crisp packets and Cheesestring wrappers and those disgusting soggy dregs from the bottom of his coffee mug.
With a sigh, she wiped the blood from the knife against her little black dress, and hoped the people at the drycleaners wouldn’t ask too many questions.
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