The Virus

I'm getting to be pretty good with a knife.

I wasn't before. Took me five minutes to dispatch poor Mom. She was staying over because her and Dad and were fighting again.

I was in the kitchen, chopping cucumbers. She came out of my guest room, and right away I saw it.

"No," she said, backing away. "It's not what you think, honey. I'm just tired."

But I worked in a hospital—cleaning up spills, sure, but I worked in a hospital and I knew. Slash, slash, slash and I thought that would be it. I followed her to the ground—stab and stab and stab, but still no. She tried to say something—slash and that did it.

Emergency response took her body away and, of course, checked me over, but I knew they would and I'd prepared.

Next time it was quicker—still messy, but quicker. I never liked door-to-door salespeople anyway. Then with Sally I learned that if you jab your knife into the exact right place, you won't jab twice. Sally had seen the signs of infection before I could put in the eyedrops, so it was her or me, and it wasn't going to be me.

Lots of people blame God for this. What's the point of thinking like that? Things are the way they are, so you find a way to deal.

And like I said, I'm getting to be pretty good with a knife.

Karl El-Koura lives with his family in Ottawa, Canada's capital city, and works a regular job by day while writing fiction at night. To find out more about Karl, visit his website at ootersplace.com.