A Short Story Inspired from the @writing.prompt.s Instagram Profile: “You Are the Villain, But Unaware of It.”

Sensitivity Warning: Some of the content in this story involves explicit details in regards to violence and suicidal acts. Please be aware of this before reading.

Blood drips from my knuckles.

Like oil, it lingers on the skin, embedding itself between the wrinkles. My hands are still shaking. I can’t stop them. I open the door and go inside, my clothes sticking to me. My sweat is like glue now, some of my shirt sticking to my back, the rest loosely held together.

I start the shower, taking off my clothes as I wait for the water to warm up. My breath is still escaping me, I can’t catch it. I can’t stop moving, none of it is real until I stop. I keep pacing. I keep pacing. I keep pacing.

I get in, letting the water run down my back. The heat tickles the bruises, numbing my adrenaline. The pain comes back. I can’t wash it away.

I look down. The water now has a brown tint. I can barely see my feet anymore.

Keep moving, I say to myself.

I get out.

The blood’s still there. Under my fingernails, stuck to my knuckles, in my hair, it’s still there.

I get dressed.

I go to make a drink. My hands are still shaking. The whiskey spills onto the countertop. The glass almost slips from my hand, but I grip it tighter.

I drink.

I stop. I breathe. I can see him.

I see his face, his eyes swollen. His nose is broken. Blood bathes across his lips, his head gashed. His brown eyes hidden behind the blood. His voice muffled from pain. I can hear his wheezing.

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Wheeeze. Wheeeze. Wheeeze.

Looping in my ear like an annoying jingle. I can’t get it out. I take another drink.

My hand begins to shake again. I remember how it felt, the ricochet of my fist hitting him again, again, and again. The face that was there on that day, that day, I lost him. He took him from me. I kept hitting him.

I couldn’t stop.

I wouldn’t stop.

I should’ve stopped with him.

She had nothing to do with it. Any of it.

I take another drink. The bottles empty now. I try to move. I try to walk. I stumble, tripping over myself as I hit the ground. I sit up and rest my head against the wall. I see her, I can’t stop seeing her.

Her little hands. Her little body as it expanded again and again. Until it didn’t. I can hear her scream, the final sound. Begging me to not do it, to stop, to keep away. I didn’t.

I look at my hands. Her blood is still there. Strands of her hair are still there, clinging to my skin, reminding me. The knife is still in my hand. I’ve held onto it this whole time. I let it go.

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I couldn’t stop. I wouldn’t stop. I can’t stop.

I stick the blade in my wrist and pull.

Blood drips down the knife. Blood drips from my knuckles. I listen to my breath escape, I can’t catch it.

Wheeeze. Wheeeze. Wheeeze.


Written by

Writer, Aspiring Author, & Coffee Enthusiast

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