BLOOD UNDER THE FINGERNAILS
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They called me a psychopath in the newspapers.
As if I woke up one day and decided murder sounded fun.
Let me tell you about the first time I killed something
I was nine when dad brought home the live chicken for Eid. He pressed the knife into my hands, his police-uniform buttons digging into my back as he guided my grip. "Hold tighter," he chided when I trembled. The bird's heartbeat thrummed against my palms alive, alive, alive, until it wasn't.
Warm blood splattered my new salwar kameez. Mom scolded me for staining it.
That night, I dreamt of the chicken's beak moving in the trash bin, whispering "You're next."
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