Ten Thirty

The clanging of the grandfather clock ushered me out of my trance, and I looked at its face to note the time. I appreciated such details, and I committed ten thirty into memory. It was as good a time as any for one to meet one's demise, I mused.

         At my feet, the lifeless body of what used to be Peter English was face down in a growing pool of blood, his appendages fanned out as if he were a skydiver who had just leapt out of a plane. A dark stain continued to spread across the light blue Oxford shirt, which the blade had penetrated at least thirteen times. (Yes, I had counted.) Blood also oozed from the gash on his forehead--he had struck a corner of his mahogany desk as he tumbled to the floor. I wondered if that was, in fact, how the poor man had ultimately died.

         The poor man, I thought. Don't make me laugh.

         "Daddy?" said a tinny voice from behind me, and I swung around to see the late professor's daughter, Miranda, standing under the door frame. She was barefoot and was visibly shaking in her nightgown. "Daddy?" she repeated, her eyes wide as she took in the scene, quickly realizing that the recipient of her inquiry was incapable of hearing it.

         I turned to walk toward her, absentmindedly wiping on my pant leg the blood off of the athamé. My movements were quick, and Miranda--or whatever it was that pretended to be this ten-year-old girl--was soon doubled-over and convulsing on the carpet, choking on her own blood that spewed from where I'd sliced her neck.

         Our eyes met just before the lights went out from behind hers.


Entry for "Daily Flash Fiction Challenge" 
Prompt for 7/18: Write a story that includes the line: "Don't make me laugh"
Word Count: 287