(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.


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