I always expected it would be me. Not because I'm somehow important, just because it had to start somewhere. But you know what they say, everything you're looking for is always in the last place you look. Even death.
Every night, I repeated my routine. Stand over my desk in clear view; obliviously look down at the desk in front of me, have my back to the door. Paying just enough attention to the desk to make it look like I was distracted.
Trying not to look like I felt.
Scared.
Desperately I try to listen out for the small squeak of the door, that was to signal the killer's entrance. I glanced over to my right for the thousandth time, yes the dagger is still there, just as it was the other hundreds of times. I go back to my book; it is upsidedown. In my haste to start the trap I threw it on the desk the wrong way. I chuckled to myself, some rogue I was. I reach out to turn the book the right way but then I hear it, the squeak. My eyes widening, I was so unprepared! Instinct takes over, spinning round I grab the knife and turn to lunge at the door; but stop midstep.
Oh, it was you, I relax, smile. I almost killed you. Almost, so almost. My apologies echo round like my mood; panicked, but relieved. I turn, offer you some drink or food, still chuckling that I didn't even set up the book the right way... before I feel it. It just feels like a needle, pricking in my back. But it was worse, so much worse. I stutter, taste the blood on my lips, and manage to let out a cry. My shirt feels wet, I reach round to my back to feel how I die; my own dagger. He didn't even come in armed. One last chuckle to myself, if I wasn't so paranoid he might have spared me. Before collapsing, the face I make being a pained smile; the irony wasn't lost on me.
Hope the writing isn't too terrible
