I learned how to use a knife when I was in jail. They didn’t call it a jail, but they didn’t let us out and we weren’t there voluntarily, so what else could it have been? It was a mistake. I didn’t belong in jail, but I was in there for years. Until I escaped.
The jail was run by people who claimed to be doctors. Doctors don’t keep people prisoner. They tried to force me to take medications with names that sounded like alien races in a poorly-written sci-fi movie.
I’m a hard man to force to do anything.
It was there that I met a man named Bob. I didn’t bother learning his last name. He was a killer, but I think that I was the only one who truly realized what that meant. Everyone else treated him like a normal person, albeit an imprisoned one, but I knew the truth. He was a monster. I convinced him to teach me how to use a knife, and in return I promise him that when I escaped, I’d take him with me. I was true to my word, and he to his. When we were on kitchen duty, he taught me how to fight using the kitchen knives.
I had a plan to escape. I tied together blankets when I was on laundry duty, making a rope long enough to reach the ground from the roof of the building. One day, during our supervised “outside time” on the roof, I used some tape I had stolen from one of the doctor’s desks and put it on the side of the door to stop it from latching. Later that night, we snuck up to the roof. I tied the make-shift rope to the railing along the edge of the roof. I helped Bob over the edge of the rail. Then I lowered the rope and climbed down.
I was a bit surprised to see that the blood of a monster looked just like the blood of a human. I stabbed one of the two kitchen knives I had stolen into the chest of his motionless body and left it there, just in case the fall hadn’t killed him. I left the body there like that, lying in a flattened rosebush. His blood painting the roses red.