Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound of the knife hitting the wall scared me even more. This isn't good. This wasn't going to be good. How I ended up under my bed hiding from my boyfriend, I don't know. Well, yes, I do know. I told him that I didn't like the shirt he was wearing and asked him if he could change before we left for the movies.

He turned angry, yelling at me and saying that I was the one who picked out the shirt. I did not. That then lead to both of us yelling at each other and then fighting. That' when the knife came out. He had already cut my cheek when I started running.

My house was huge, so I could easily hide in places he didn't know where to look. But, of course, under my bed wasn't a good spot at all.

And then it stopped. The tapping stopped, but the footsteps didn't. I heard his boots hit the hardwood floor in my room. My breath quickened and I placed a hand over my mouth. I'm sure he could hear my heartbeat under the bed. His feet stopped at the edge of my bed and he sat down, the bed squeaking and falling where he sat. He took a breath and I closed my eyes, knowing this was going to be the last thing I heard.

“I'm sorry,” he said quietly before I felt all his weight on my bed. Silence, nothing. I was scared to come out from under my bed, but I quietly slid out and stayed to where I knew he couldn't see me. I saw the glitter of the metal knife on the floor in the moonlight, but something else shined next to it. I slowly stood up, feeling like an idiot, but I knew I could run if I had to.
On my bed lay him, my boyfriend, covered in a red liquid. I now knew what it was; blood. He killed himself. He committed suicide right on my bed, right over where I was hiding. What a tragic ending to my love life.