Drip. Drip. Drip.

December 20, 2017

The warm crimson liquid splashes and spreads on the white tile.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
You barely taste the sticky ooze, but the smell of the metallic red river makes you sick.
Drip Drip. Drip.
Your head aches, the cut pulses with each beat of your loud and fast heart.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The blood runs down your arm to your hand, it’s still, barely moving but it still falls onto your shoe.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? You scream in your head, it echoes slow and steady over and over making your knees go weak.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
You turn to the sink, twisting the silver handle.
Washing the blood off, it falls with the water, they both dance together telling a story of the pain and hurt.
Soon falling into a swirling embrace.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
It goes down with a flash.
Drip. . . Drip. . . Drip. . .
You take a towel putting it on the cut, you watch the once light grey towel turn to an ugly brown.
You gag from the blood still leaking slowly.
The vital scarlet fluid comes together and descend to the floor.
DRIP. DRIP. DRIP. 
Man! What a nasty paper cut.






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