I pulled the knife put. Blood didn't pour from his mouth or out of the wound like the movies. He just looked at me, and fell backwards. Ha. Ha. I sweeped up the broken glass from the kitchen floor. Ugh. That smell of alcohol still lingered. Disgusting habit. Old navy rum was his favourite. Was his favourite. Was. What a funny night it had been. Started off the usual, heard him trying to get through the door after being at the pub. Dropping bottles of beer at the front door. Now or never, I thought, rubbing the bruises on my arm. He was shouting my name outside, calling me an old bitch. Fat whore. More fuel for the fire, thank you. As I opened the door, he tumbled in, knocking me over. He laughed at me. I thought about asking: are you going to change? But before I thought about anything else I noticed a familiar shift in his stare. His eyes changed to that dark glint. Shit. His fists lunged towards my chest and I heard a loud crack. Winded, I managed to crawl far enough away from him to give me some time before he stumbled over to me. I sat under the table. Not frightened. Just rigid. Waiting. He stumbled over quicker than I thought he would. Leaning over me with his breath and his fists and his glare. I grabbed the knife I was going to use to carve his dinner. It plunged into him just below his rib cage. I made sure I got the whole knife inside.