The knives were sharpened. Not out yet. Still in their canvas roll, tied tight around with cord. Sharp, though. Ready.

The kitchen was clean. Wiped down. All surfaces disinfected. Not that it mattered. This butchering job wasn’t about food. Nobody was going to dine on the fillets and cuts I’d be preparing tonight.

I waited. The tungsten bulbs cast a harsh light across the blond wood surfaces and white tiled walls. A clean kitchen is my favourite workspace. Clinical. Sterile. Calm.

I waited. Time passed. I leant against a work bench, my arms folded, the roll of knives on another work bench before me. I mentally prepared, deciding on which knife for which cut.

On arrival, she was drugged but still conscious. She was gagged but not blindfolded. Her eyes cast around the room, the tops flattened like a cat under threat. They looked squared off, like a character in an anime film. I liked that.

With the first cut, she flinched, but then she realised that her body was numb. She was still after that. Fatally so, eventually.

When I’d done, I had to wipe my hands on the legs of my jeans.

I forgot to bring an apron.

In response to a Past Postcards tweet.