True Love

He's sitting there with the TV flashing-talking into a headset with a wire that needs replacing; thanks to his habitual chewing on it. He's so engrossed in the game he doesn't even see me. Ten minutes I stand there, watching-more then watching- observing him in his natural habitat. Fingers flick deftly back and fourth, when he's not chewing on the wire he bites his lip. His head never moves, only his eyes follow the fiction living onscreen.

"Well, you had the second most score of the match...I got three Molotov cocktails that last match too."

He stretches, and for the first time notices my reflection in the TV. Reflections are funny like that, you don't see them when you watch what's on the screen, you only realize they're there if you're looking at the surface of things.

His finger pauses on his virtual trigger control as my fingers tense around my actual kitchen knife.

He cocks his head slightly to one side, confused. For a few long seconds, neither of us move, we are suspended taking each other in. Then he stands, still confused, eyes darting around for a defense. But here in this living room there are no convenient hidden weapons, no second player to back him up. It's just me, and him, and the kitchen knife. I speak, finally. I feel like I should say something fitting.

"You're not going to regenerate from this you know."

Trying to sound tough, the sentiment falls pathetically in the air. Leaving words for action, three steps of action, I am in front of him. He doesn't do anything, years of controllers have paralyzed his defense. First cut the cord, taking care to leave his headset intact. Then press the knife slowly and firmly into his chest.

I didn't think about ribs, but they crack as I twist and jiggle the knife. I scrape away flesh and muscle, searching and ignoring the shrikes from the still conscious man. Then I reach both hands into the small cavity I have created, feeling around and squishing fat between my fingers. I brush more satisfying muscle, and grin. He is virtually dead to the world as I use the knife tip and one hand to pry the side of the organ out, ripping and tearing at the sinewy strings that are still attached. The severed arteries pump blood onto the old gray carpet, and I am finally holding the mutilated and still twitching heart in my hands.

And for a second I think I see his eyes twitch, and I know that for the first time in years he has seen me in actuality.