It took more force than I’d expected. The blade was sharp, but even with my full strength behind it, I barely got four inches in.
That was enough. As he fought against it, it sliced deeper, and vibrated with each sinewy centimeter. He scratched and clawed at my arms, my neck, but I clung to the wooden handle, slick with the warm, wet life oozing out of him.
The air was thick and acrid, so I held my breath.
There was very little life left within me anyway.
I had died a little every day for the last fourteen years.