Last Night I Killed a Man

Last night, a man came through the front door of my home. Though he seemed somewhat familiar, I did not easily recognize him. He smirked as he told me that he had become quite comfortable sitting on my sofa, sleeping on my bed, wearing my clothes. He laughed at me as he casually strolled through the living room, like he owned the place. So I attacked him. I knocked him down in the hallway but he regained his footing. We wrestled past the kitchen and my son's bedrooms. My fists clenched tightly, I threw punches from every direction. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest with every single blow. The fight moved into the master bedroom as we became entangled. We spun like madmen around the room, into the closet doors, over the bed and against the dresser, landing in front of the mirror in the bathroom. I wrapped my hands around his throat. I clenched my teeth and dug my fingers in as I told him that he was not welcome in my home. He pushed back. Spewing his hatred for me, calling me "weak" and "pathetic." He threw out reminders of past transgressions. But I was relentless. I squeezed tighter. His face turned red. I could see the fear grow in his eyes as he drew what he knew would be his last breath. He begged. He tried to bargain. But I just...kept...squeezing. Last night I killed a man. And I hope I never see him again.