Layers Of Red

• Anna Ferguson, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2020

The man whistled huskily, a lone echo in the subway full of sounds, and hopped aboard the train. He held a book in one hand, and a knife in the other, which flipped through the air before landing unceremoniously into his palm, over and over again. He did it with a bout of confidence that would have seemed cocky had it been from anyone else. Polished shoes stepped inside a carriage, and he dropped himself onto the hard seat. Looking towards the fading sky out the window, he barely acknowledged the person who had joined him, just a slight nod and a grim grunt.

It was almost laughable, the exchange between these two people, with the stranger so feeble, and the man so self-assured, sitting with regal composure. What used to be an opalescent sky had now turned dark and silent, the only sound the sighs of the train exerting itself up and down the rugged countryside. The stranger had begun to talk fervently about a late-night football match, arms flailing and voice hitching. One small move, one slight flick, and the deed was done. The silence, while deafening, had no effect on the man whatsoever, who stared at the body with an air of curiosity, like it was something he had never seen before. He hopped off at the next station, with only one hand full, whistling huskily as he carried himself away. For even though he had taken a weight off his shoulders, there was now another layer of blood on his hands.