"Don't do this." He half-screams at me, he's panicking. But I'm not going to listen, I smile at him, a twisted smile, and I walk forwards. Slowly. Oh so very slowly. I'm holding a knife, he's holding his breath. My knife is taken from my kitchen back home, I'm at school now, in the art studio.
I advance, he retreats.
"Let me explain, it's not what you think." He blurts out, he's sweating trememndously, it's highly unattractive. I pause slightly, I'm not going to listen to a word he says, and he should know that, but I shall humour him.
"What do I think, then?" I smirk as I watch his confusion to the question. Not what he was expecting, obviously. His forehead creases in a frown, and his answer is far too hurried.
"You think that you can stab me now, and watch your problems die with me. You're wrong." His eyes dart to the knife, then to my face. He's searching for uncertainty, for a slight hesitation. But his eyes see none.
"But Charlie, you are my problems." I show my teeth as I grin. This he'd expected, unfortunate that I hate to be predictable, so he countered immediately.
"No you're your problems." He steps back again, and I step forward.
Right, I'm my problems. Well that just doesn't make any sense at all. Poor Charlie, going insane with panic.
"You are mistaken." I pride myself with the calm in my voice. Straighten my back and run two paces. The knife's pressed against his chest now, and his breathing's quickened. He better watch out, he might hyperventilate.
"You don't want to do that." He says, but he's so unsure of himself now. His face is flushed, his eyes darting crazily for any way to escape. He finds none. He's trapped in the art studio, I've cornered him, his back is pressed against the back wall.
"It's over Charlie." I tell him.
And he knows it's true.