Sorry this took so long. I am seriously considering not writing anymore of this story.

Blood drips from new wounds, while old are torn open. Yet he doesn't even wince. This nothing compared to his suffering inside.

"It could have been me"

Another cut. But he wasn't satisfied.

"It should have been me"

Its still not enough to save him from the sheer agony, building up inside of him like a tidal wave of depression, anger and love.

"It would have been me"

If only he had gotten there earlier. Then no blood would have to be shed at all. Gasping he dropped the crimson stained knife, recoiling in horror. If anyone else found out about this. Swiftly he got up, mopping the new damage with a new handkerchief. He then moved onto the knife, slowly gliding the flimsy cloth over the metal. When there were no longer traces of the blood he had drew, the sharp metal was quickly stowed away. All the incriminating evidence had been cleared.

I know this is extremely short and im sorry if you wasted your time reading this.