(Some of my stories are written for other people. This one is written for me.)
I run my hands under the open faucet; the water in the sink turns pink. It was a knife slip – but, really, it was me.
I look at my bleeding hands, and suddenly I feel myself being flung into the future – there, I am looking at my hands again. They are covered in someone else’s blood.
I’m going to kill someday – it is inevitable.
Someone is going to die, and it will be because of me, because I am not enough.
Can I handle that?
I don’t know, and something of mine goes down the drain, along with my blood.