Did I kill anyone? No. Did I save myself? Yes.
They make it sound like I wanted to do it. Like, I chose to do it; like I had a choice. It’s people like that that makes me wanna stop and tell them that’s its so much more than what they can comprehend. The resonance of blood drippin onto the floor, the sound of tearing flesh. The world isn’t make up of black and white, what about the blue, the red the grey? The knife placed next to the sink, the towels neatly rolled up in the bathroom. Mom’s smile.
Of course, no one saw it coming. It was one of those ‘unanticipated outcomes’, they say. But all that came through to me was that we needed desperate cash, and as they say desperate times call for desperate measures. The smell of latex gloves lingering on my fingertips, the sight of sickly red. She can’t know about what I’ve done, whether it’s for her sake or mine. They make it sound like I wanted to do it. Those sad, pathetic people who had all they wanted from the moment they drew their first breath. Who are they to judge the less fortunate? Who are they to understand why? The feeling of burning ice, the scent of violation. My palms that are dipped in blood, would you take my hand?