I watched the blood drip from my hands — thick, dark, and warm — like ink blotting out the lines of who I used to be. A life, cleanly bisected. Before and after. Innocent and irrevocably stained. My eyes trembled, unable to focus, darting back and forth as if searching for some reality that would make sense of this, some logic that could possibly justify the crimson tide now ebbing down my fingers. My heart pounded like war drums in my chest, a relentless rhythm of panic and disbelief, each beat a deafening accusation, a stark reminder of the irreversible line I had crossed.

Did I just do that?

Did I kill her?

The words screeched through my skull, louder than any siren that might already be on its way, a cacophony of horror and self-loathing. My breath came shallow and fast, chest heaving as my mind spiraled into chaos, each thought a jagged shard of glass. My body moved on its own — disconnected from thought, fueled by instinct and terror, a puppet dancing to the tune of pure, unadulterated fear. I staggered backward, nearly tripping over a forgotten rug, the sticky warmth on my skin grounding me in the worst way, anchoring me to the reality I desperately wanted to escape.

I grabbed handfuls of my hair, yanking so hard I felt the roots scream, a physical manifestation of the mental torment raging within. A choked grunt tore from my throat, a guttural sound that barely scratched the surface of the storm inside me, a sound primal and raw, a testament to the shattering of my soul.

I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to…

I never imagined I’d be capable of this — not for anyone. Not even for her. But she... she was everything. My light in the dark, a beacon in the swirling madness that had always threatened to consume me. My reason. Maybe that’s why I did it. Maybe I hoped that if I snuffed out one more piece of this wretched world, she’d finally see me. Understand me. Need me. A twisted logic, born from desperation and a yearning so intense it had warped into something monstrous.

But now?

If I’m caught...

If they take me away...

I’ll never see her again. Never breathe in her laughter, a melody that had always soothed the savage beast within. Never watch the way sunlight makes her hair glow like amber, a radiant halo that had captivated and tormented me in equal measure.

Everything I’ve done — everything — would be for nothing.

The thought tears at me like claws, ripping through what little sanity I have left. I grit my teeth, rage welling up like fire in my veins, a destructive inferno fueled by regret and the crushing weight of my actions. I slam my fist into the wall, the impact sending pain blooming through my arm, a momentary distraction from the agonizing truth. Again. Again. Until my knuckles split open, bleeding to match the crimson already drying on my skin, a perverse symmetry of suffering.

Sirens. Distant, but getting closer, a haunting chorus that signals the impending end.

Shit.

I snatch the knife, still damp with the truth of what I’ve done, and tuck it against my body — tight to my side so I can run faster. It feels heavier now, as if it knows, as if it’s judging me too, a silent accomplice in my crime.

I bolt, lungs screaming, legs barely cooperating as I flee the scene, leaving behind the shattered remnants of a life and the haunting shadow of what I have become. I don’t look back. I can’t. The image of what I left behind would surely shatter me completely.

By the time I reach the apartment, my chest is heaving and sweat pours from every inch of me, a physical manifestation of the internal turmoil that threatens to drown me. I slam the door shut and lock it, sliding down to the floor, gasping for air that refuses to soothe me, each breath a reminder of the life I stole. My hands tremble as I stare at them again, stained in red, forever marked by the blood of the woman I loved.

She’s dead.

She has to be…

But what if she isn’t?

What if she’s alive, lying there, suffering? What if I failed? What if someone found her, still clinging to life, her eyes wide with terror?

Oh God—

The doubt sends a jolt of panic through me, and I scream — wordless, raw, a primal howl of despair that echoes through the empty apartment. I lurch forward and punch the wall, once, twice, again, until my bleeding knuckles smear against the pale paint, a macabre artwork painted with guilt and regret. My skin splits further, mixing old blood with new, a testament to the self-inflicted wounds that mirror the deeper scars within.

“Fuck,” I hiss under my breath, pacing like a caged animal, trapped by my own actions. I can’t think. Can’t breathe. Every thought slams into the next like a train wreck, a chaotic jumble of emotions that threatens to overwhelm me. Guilt. Terror. A sick kind of triumph, a fleeting moment of twisted satisfaction that is quickly devoured by the overwhelming weight of my transgression. Then back to guilt again, the relentless cycle of self-loathing and fear.

I stumble into the bathroom and rip off my clothes, stepping under the shower's icy blast, hoping to wash away the stain, both literal and metaphorical. The water turns pink, then red, circling the drain like a secret I can’t wash away fast enough, a visible reminder of the darkness that now resides within me. My hands scrub at my skin violently, desperate to erase it — the smell, the feel, the weight of what I’ve done, the indelible mark of a killer.

But it clings to me.

No matter how hard I scrub, it’s still there.

And I don’t know if I want it gone. Perhaps this stain is my penance, a constant reminder of the monster I have become, a burden I must carry for the rest of my days. Or perhaps, deep down, a part of me believes that this act, however monstrous, has finally made me worthy of her attention, even if only in my own twisted, broken mind.