The pressure was too much. He found this out too late. Blood dripped slowly onto the floor from where she sat. The thick red liquid seeps through her clothes and into the cream colored couch. Drip, drip, drip.
A man was returning home. He was old but young. His hair gray but also brown. Slight wrinkling on his face. The door unlocks with a turn of his key. Walking in, he sends a 'I'm home.' into the darkness. No reply. He is confused but does not linger on the feeling. A shimmer of something on the floor catches his attention. It is still dark with the exception of the street light coming through the window. He flips a switch. Light fills the hallway. The shimmer comes from a liquid on the floor. A red liquid. Panic begins to flood his senses. He leans down and gently touches it. Its as he feared, blood. His bag drops to the floor and his steps pound through the building. He shouts her name. He screams it. He moves quickly from room to room, shouting her names. The downstairs is now clear. He doesn't know whether to feel relieved or scared. The stairs loom before him. With breath slightly broken, he climbs them. As he reaches the top, more of the thick, red liquid is on the floor. He follows the trail. He focuses on his breathing, preparing himself for anything. He pushes open her bedroom door. His eyes widen at the sight of her and the drip, drip, dripping blood.
She was home before him. Like everyday, she came home to hate mail and vandalism. 'Why do people hate me?' She wonders. 'Why do I even keep trying?' She questions in her subconscious. Her family has left her alone. She decided a long time time ago what would eventually happen. No one was here to stop her. After cleaning all evidence of hatred from the front yard, she locked herself in her home. Her life has been complicated and she was so done with all of it. Ending it all would ease the pain of her unwanted existence. Her father loved her, but what if she was causing him pain and he his it. Talking to him about it was out of the question. He wouldn't understand what goes on at school or in her head. She walks into the kitchen. He hides the knifes but she always finds them and everything else he hides there. She picks up a pairing knife. Heading back toward the stairs she accidentally pricks her finger. A drop of her blood falls to the floor. She ignores it. Her feet carry her up the stairs. Her fingers fiddle with the sharp piece of metal. The door to her door is open, she enters and closes it. Her couch creaks as she sits down on it. She leans back and prepares mentally for her dirty work. The is raised and pulls at at the skin of her upturned wrist. She keeps pulling. Soon her vision blurs and all she hears is the drip, drip dripping blood.
Fin
