I step on the knife and drive it in, conjuring a clenching of teeth, a gasp of agony, a surge of blood.

“Just relax,” I whisper. “Relax.”

Rod turns on one side and drags himself toward the kitchen, where the phone is. I lift one leg up and bring my foot down on the side of his face, so his head goes SNAP! against the floor.

He doesn’t even manage a scream—only a stunned gasp. He turns on his back, and though he is breathing, his face is a disfiguration of red slop.

“No phones,” I command, wrapping my hands under his armpits and pulling his body farther inside the living room. “No cops.”

I’ll be damned if you crawl to safety when I didn’t have that choice.

I wander his place as he bleeds, keeping one eye on him the whole time.

A cabinet of guns. A hyena rug. A Confederate flag hung over the blinds so that everyone will know what he stands for. The man is unchanged.

My third lesson came from Uncle Rod. He came to my room the night of my seventeenth birthday celebration and showed me how to build an AR-15.

“I want you to see that all this,” he said, “is different parts. All this makes a weapon what it is.”

It was the trigger guard, the pistol grip, the trunnion, the buttstock.

They looked so intricate hanging in his dining room cabinet. It was a dark and protective décor. I’ve always admired them in a way.

I open the doors of the gun cabinet, brush my hand along the barrel of a black one with two grips and several holes in its design. The Sig Sauer MCX, whose nickname I can’t remember but must be something like Joy. There is such beauty in the weapon, in its power and submission. How removed it is from the man that carries it, and yet acting in such violence nonetheless.

I take it off its hinges. Pop out the magazine. Load it with bullets. Just how Rod taught me when he thought his own lessons couldn’t be used against him. Now he’s on the kitchen floor, hands wrapped around a knife handle.

“Wh-wh-why?” Bloody spittle spatters from his mouth. “Why are you doing this?”

Gun on coffee table. Knee on floor, right by his side. I tilt my head so that our eyes connect.

“Because you’re a rapist,” I remind him.

Maybe he’s forgotten, because his eyes widen like he’s shocked. “Who are you?”

“God.” I yank the knife out of his stomach and replace it in his thigh. Another gurgled scream—music to my ears. “Good to see your knee healed up.”

“P-please stop,” he begs.

I drive it into his ribs. “Relax, Rod. You don’t have to do anything.”