Something characters say in stories. You'd be long dead before your blood ever reached a temperature that could be described as 'cold'.
But then my blood ran cold.
It is the only way I can describe how I felt. I felt as though I was sinking in an icy black lake, and that the water was somehow coursing through my veins, my inner ears, my guts, my stomach. Cold, cold, cold. Dark.
This is how I felt when you told me that you swerve your car to hit cats on purpose, because you find it funny. Because you hate them.
You'd never actually killed one. Which to you made it perfectly fine. You expected me to laugh, I think.
But some small part of my soul died. Spiritual road kill.
And my blood ran cold.
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