I hear the crack of his skull before the splattering of blood reaches me. The blood-soaked bedsheet touching the bare parts of my skin. The cold seeping into my bones. I shiver.
I look up. The whole bed is soaked in the blood of some man I don't know. All the knowledge I have of him is gained from the conversation between my uncle and someone who came to see him today. I overheard them. I am overhearing them.
Save me. Please save me. Wake me up. Bring me back.
The whole room is red now. And something wet, something warm is streaming down my cheeks. I can't breathe. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I wasn't supposed to hear something like that.
My doctor, whom my parents told me is my therapist, suggested to send me away from the city for a little while. So I'm here, in the house of my mother's youngest sister's husband. I'm here to get my mind off of my everyday life, as told by the doctor. But everytime, it seems to get worse and worse and worse. And everytime, I'm so sure that I'll die this time. But my sweet, sweet death hasn't been able to find me yet.
I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know why this happens to me. But I think they know. But I also know that they aren't going to tell me anytime soon. So I'm left on my own trying "to get my mind off of my everyday life."
