Knife, fork, spoon

Judy screamed, terrorized by the scene before her: Harold, on his stomach, the left side of his face pressed down to the floor of his kitchen – dead as a door nail, a large kitchen knife protruding from under his body, a serving fork stuck in his back, and a spoon jammed into his mouth. Annie stood on the opposite side of the apartment, white-faced, blood on her hands, splattered on her neck and down her cleavage, her eyes blazing and poring into Judy.

Judy looked up and down the outer hallway. It zoomed out like a mile-long tunnel and zoomed back in. Ceiling shadows menaced her like scampering tarantulas, a sudden itch in her back startled her into turning around, sure that Annie would soon seize her, and Annie's eyes penetrated right to the bottom of her stomach. It lurched and seized her abdomen; she vomited dinner onto the floor. Spinach from the salad she'd eaten only forty minutes ago blew out her nose.

Annie flexed her long, tenacious fingers – talons that caused Judy to retch even more. "Bitch-whore!" Annie screamed, blonde hair falling into her face, wet-streaked with perspiration leaking down her blood-stained face. Before Judy even stopped vomiting, Annie was on top of her, grabbing her by her long, dark hair, pulling her head back. Judy choked on vomit, struggled, and spit the last of the bile on Annie's legs. She looked above her, weeping for her impending death. And then the fight came back into her.

With her free hands she clubbed Annie in the knees, pulled one of her legs in one direction, the other in the opposite. Annie fell on top of her, pulling hair out of Judy's head. Judy kicked at Annie, pulled herself free, and with all her might slammed her fists into Annie's back. And then her mind went to blackness.