So this is how it feels.

I lean back on the counter, taking my shortest puffs of breath. The pain is not unbearable...but very different.

I'll probably die, I think. But I might make it to the phone to call emergency.

They all laughed when I told them that I had a very real dream, too real, about an intruder breaking into our house and killing us all, and how after that I wanted to keep a knife next to me in bed.

Not on the bed; wedged into the baseboard, standing at full alert, waiting to be called into action, right there behind my night table.

My eyes popped open this night. Did I hear something? Did I feel something? I'm the heavy sleeper, yet she breathes the rhythmic pattern of beauty next to me that she only does whe all is safe in the house.

I call upon my soldier anyway. Instinct, I tell myself. I roll to the balls of my feet so no squeaks or groans from the 100 year old peanut gallery of floorboards make my announcement like the MC calling me to the stage.

Ladies and Gentlemen, let's hear it for Mr. Paranoia, who in his petrified haste will be gutting, cleaning and dicing for stew his housecat for roaming the house in the night after his bad dream.

I pull on my bedroom door so slowly that the screaming hinges only click ever-so-lightly. I take a deep breath and drop to all-fours. If there is someone in my house, I will gain the element of surprise, because he will be looking for me to be upright.

The chill steals my breath. I can't move. No, it's not cold in here; not really. I slide my knife out around the corner and look at it; at the reflection of my kitchen bathed in moonlight. There is a figure dressed in black standing there. He just made his way in through the sliding door to the deck. I knew that I should've replaced the rotted door handle! The broomstick in the door was a temporary fix, for the last five years. And now it stood mocking me, leaning against the cabinet door, calling me a failure.

I have always fantasized about being the hero...every boy does. You picture yourself saving someone's life, or making the great play on the school team and the end result is that everyone likes you.

Right now, I want to puke.

Okay, regroup, my soldier knife tells me. We're only going to get one shot at this.

Is it true that if this guy lives, that he can sue me for assault? In my house? I heard that somewhere. Well, I'll make sure he's dead then.

Come on, focus! Your mind is wandering...what are you going to do?

He's going through my Grandmother's silver. Stuffing each piece in a sock and loading it into a pillowcase. He's not here for my 40 inch plasma. No way he'll carry it. This shit is much more sellable.

As soon as he turns his back to me at the hutch, I will sneak around the corner, slice his neck and stab him. He should bleed to death.

I can't believe that I am talking to myself about dumping this guy's 8 pints of blood all over my kitchen.

I close my eyes and think of the beautiful woman in the other room still in slumber, the blanket rising with every breath. I think of the three princesses upstairs, and how this outcome could be very different.

There he goes, making his way to the china and now I'm in the kitchen, my kitchen table acting as some temporary cover.

NOW. I jump up and sprint two steps and as his hands are full, I slice him right across the throat. I forgot how sharp this knife was until it sank a good three inches into his neck by the time it got to his adam's apple.

I don't say a word and our eyes meet.

I grab his shoulder as he started to turn around and face me, and I bury the knife to the hilt right into the side of his ribcage. What he saw when his throat was being slit and he was being murdered was not a Spartan.

He saw a man who in his sheer terror, reacted. I look just as surprised as he is. I am trembling as he crumbles to the floor in a heap. He twitches, but I can see that by the amount of blood on the floor, he will not survive. Mission accomplished.

Until I exhale. I can hear the adrenaline pumping in my head like the bass drum of a marching band.

I feel tight, and the vomit is rising from my throat. I must be in shock. Why can't I breathe in?

I look to the countertop that was to the left of the intruder. That wonderful butcher's block knife set that I got for the holidays, with two slots empty. Wait two...

Did I wet myself? I feel warmth turned to coolness running down my exposed thighs, and my boxers are sticking to me. I hesitate to look down, but I have to.

And there it is. There's the other knife.

So I am standing here, now, with the wooden handle of the vampiric blade protruding from my stomach. I see it tremble with life with every heartbeat.

It pulls the life from my very soul, the cool metal chomping hungrily at my essence in big bites.

It's almost magical how I feel weaker each beat...if I grabbed the handle, would it pulse while feeding on my life-energy?

I can feel the metal inside me. Maybe just inside the skin...I don't know if your organs have sense receptors, but I definitely feel the intrusion.

I close my eyes and think about dying. I don't want to move, because I can feel the knife poking every time I even shift a little.

I wonder if that Life Flashing Before Your Eyes piece is legit. I haven't seen anything from my past yet. No white light...yet.

Just a shitload of blood from us both, and my breath stolen from me. The thief still made away with something. Bastard.

I can't scream, can't even talk, so I muster the strength to kick over a chair. It's a wooden bar stool-type chair, so it sounds like I just kicked over the refrigerator at 2 AM.

I hear stirring and scurrying off in the distance as I stand there leaning, afraid to move.

Hey, I remember that time with my Grandmother, when I was getting a haircut, I was probably 10 that day at the barbershop. Man, I miss her.

I wait for my help as I enjoy the memories that are now flowing like a movie in my mind, my eyelids act as the largest three-dimensional screen I have ever seen.

I wait for help.

My trusty bedside protector saved the lives of my family.

Well...most of my family.