Richard never got to finish that sentence. He was supposed to finish it and then attack me, but that never happened either. I didn’t know that I was going to do it, but I wasn’t really surprised when I did. (I'll light myself on fire if you keep this sentence in the story.) The wine bottle was only a prop, but it was heavy enough. He turned back to me, and his eyes were shocked and confused. This renewed my anger and dissolved any pity I might have felt. Then he started to speak, and I knew I couldn’t bear the sight of his goddamn fat mouth spewing his filthy blood all over the place. It didn’t occur to me until later that some of that blood might actually have touched me, and if that happened I would probably not have survived it. I hit him, again and again, and he just looked back at me with those eyes. “No…it’s wrong…this isn’t how it goes…”
When I finally stopped, everything was silent. Richard lay on the floor, one hand on his face, the other clutching his doughy chest. No one moved or breathed for a long time. All they did was stare- stare at the blood, the body, and the pathetic rising and falling of that fat, hairy stomach. They stared until those poor, burdened old lungs quit. I can’t say it took them very long. When his wheezing, gurgling whines finally stopped, there was no noise at all. I lied down on the stage and closed my eyes. It was so quiet, and it was so peaceful. It was a sound I’d been waiting to hear for fifteen years.

Acapella: this is a great story. This is a fantastic story, in fact. Now be more confident in your metaphors and STOP SAYING "SEEMED!"