Note: I use heavy symbolism in my stories and I don't sugar coat reality. Expect a bloody reality from me.
Alone. This is what you wanted. The annoying repetition of the voice chanted. My mind couldn't take much more of this. I slowly glanced over at the single other piece of furniture in my room. One broken chair where my coat was draped. "Why am I even alive?" I ask myself in a low voice. The broken world outside reflected the state of my mind. I slowly turn over the bloody knife in my hand before dropping it on the floor next to my bed. Somehow I was still alive. It seemed immpossible but at this point I was willing to believe almost anything. Slowly I accepted that I couldn't die. Slowly I accepted that I couldn't do anything about the past. The many scars on my face and neck mark me as a survivor. Though my shirt was a bloody mess at some point on that day, alone, in that room I decided to move on.
I couldn't change the past. But it would forever stain my life.
