Blood Stains

My hand slips against the wallpaper covered in blood as I try to regain footing. I run my hand down my face, the metallic smell filling my nostrils makes me wince. I steady myself and use the wall for guidance as I make my way, unsteady, down the corridor as it fades into the infinite darkness. I reach the end and feel around the door for the handle. As I press down on the lever, the door opens, the bright light assaults my retinas, I close my eyes.

I wake up in a sweat, breathing heavily. My asthma is apparent, I hurt all over. I examine my hands, my knuckles are scrapped and bruised. My throat is dry, my tongue swollen, I’m parched; I need a drink. I push myself out of bed in agony, wiping my clammy brow with the back of my hand, stumbling to the door.

I exit my refuge, entering my hallway. I deflate, reflecting on the sprays of blood that decorate the walls; my heart palpates. What the fuck is going on? Wearily, in pain, I stagger down the corridor, painting the walls with my bloody hand prints, like a kindergarten art project. I target the end of the hallway and the horrific splatters of blood that plaster the distant door. I approach and anxiety explodes throughout my body. As I open the door, the light blinds me. My eyes adjust to the levels and I see the horror. The brutally hacked bodies of my family lay silently on the floor. I collapse and touch the cooling headless body of my sister, closing my eyes tight. Please be a dream, please be a dream.

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