Finally, a knife.

So far she's been throwing nothing but cups, dishes, food, relatively harmless household items. It has started to grow boring. I can't argue anymore and I'm more than ready for the conclusion.

Finally, her slender fingers settle on a knife. Without seeming to realize how different this object is, how it changes the scene from simple domestic anger  to actual murderous intent, she picks up the long, wide, 500-dollar piece of fine cutlery, and throws it at me. It spins in the air and lands dead center in my chest, piercing my sternum and sinking in all the way to the handle.

Ok good.

Now I stagger backward until I hit the wall, then slide down to the floor, clutching my chest.

She stares at me, her eyes wide and blurred with tears. Her mouth hangs open in a gasp, as if she has just found me, just walked into the kitchen and found me here, murdered by some unknown intruder.

"Oh my God..." she whispers.

I nod, then turn my attention to the knife in my chest. I guess it has probably pierced my heart. There's quite a lot of pain. I should probably be dying soon.

"Oh my...Oh my God..."

I smile slightly. The argument has resolved itself. In the shock of seeing me lying in a pool of hot blood, she has forgotten all about my continued tendency to leave the toilet seat up.