I watched her sleep for the last time. There was a certain calm to her breathing, almost as if she knew it was coming. My hands didn’t tremble. I counted to 17 before I moved. There’s something sacred about silence before the act—it feels like a confession with no God to forgive you.
I left the window open. I wanted the night to take what was left.
The water ran red again. I couldn’t tell if it was real or if my mind decided to replay old reels. The sound of dripping is louder than screams if you know how to listen. I don’t fear blood anymore. I fear the quiet afterward.
I went to church today. Just to feel something. I sat in the back, hands in my pockets, eyes on the stained glass. No one noticed. They never do. I repeated the Lord’s Prayer backwards in my mind. It calms me. It’s like rewinding sin.
Redemption is a fable. My story doesn’t have heroes.