Suicidal Sense of Security

Blood is smeared across my skin, splattered on my clothes. My open wounds sting, all the while becoming more painful. I hold, still, the knife that created theses wounds. I force the best smile I can as I hear someone walk near me. They touch my shoulder. I turn around, forcing the smile even more. They saw my face. I could tell. They stepped back with a horrified look on their face, and my painful smile turned to a grimace. I laugh, and it echoes off the walls with a maniacal, ominous sound. They run.

“What’s wrong? I’m no different than before, haven’t you ever noticed?” I say, laughing as I chase them.

They scream for help. Their name doesn’t matter to me, no one’s name¬†ever has. Everyone is the same. They refuse to believe that death is real, that they’ll all fall into it’s clutches eventually.

FavoriteLoadingAdd to favorites

Get involved!


No comments yet