short fiction, one

It was my party. My party, in my city. This used to be your city too, before you left. When the two of you walked in I reached down toward my right stilleto and slipped that six inch knife out of my stocking and sent it flying through the room, sank it directly between your shoulder blades so we would match. But you turned around and looked at me like I was wrong, “how could you care? What did you expect from me? What are you gonna do about it?” your shrug and arrogant smile said to me through the party. I wanted to cry. At my own fucking party, without saying anything at all, you made me want to cry. She walked into a room full of my friends as if she had a right to be there, because she did. You. Why don’t I carry loaded hypodermics in my handbag? I don’t know how I hugged her. I felt everything in me collapsing on the floor as she walked away from me toward you. It was my party. You were there for me. If I didn’t love you so much, I swear to god, I really would hate you.