Vanilla, Lemon, Blood

I lick both sides of the meat cleaver. Her blood tastes like rusted honey. Grinning, I look at the body on the floor, felled like a weak question-mark after a joke. “I dub thee, DEAD!” I shout. “Hip Hip Hooray!” I feel intensely celebratory. I love excessive happiness. Irene is finally gone, forever. The sky appears brighter, & the sound of traffic, louder. The taste of her blood is really delicious, so I chop the thick blade into the other side of her wet, hairy neck. I've become a red cat: my face is a red cat's face, satisfied to the point of smiling spiritual bliss.