I made the choice long ago, to end up like this. My head being crushed and kicked at, the blood coating my face like make-up. And the blood trickling down my back, more uncomfortable than anything.

Maybe it's karma.

I hope they're all screaming, even if on the inside, I hope the sight of my body burns in their memories, because I don't want to be forgotten, not that I can be. But that will come later, because who starts a story with their death?

It has to start with being born.