"Damn, the pills' effects are wearing off," I muttered, my hand delving into my pockets in a frantic search for them. Upon retrieving the pill bottle, I clutched it tightly, concealing it within my pocket. An anxious tremor coursed through me as I shook the container, desperate for the reassuring sound of pills rattling inside, but there was nothing.
In a state of anxiety, I unknowingly began to scratch at the top of my hand. It wasn't until a drop of blood splashed onto the floor that I snapped to awareness. Glancing down, I realized it was going to leave a scar. I instinctively covered the wound with my other hand, applying pressure in the hope that the bleeding would cease. Surely, it had to stop, right? However, weakened by blood loss and exhaustion, I succumbed to unconsciousness.
I awoke in my room, hoping for someone to open my door. Eventually, it did swing open, but to my surprise, it wasn't the usual person I expected—it was my parents. Two gunshot wounds marred their chests, and their clothing was soaked in blood.
"Oh my god. Mom, Dad, are you okay?" I asked, rising from my bed and cautiously approaching them.
"You did this to us. Just one little sentence, and we wouldn't have gone. We wouldn't be dead," my mother accused, while my father menacingly brandished a knife. They advanced toward me, step by step, forcing me to retreat until I felt the wall at my back.
"Mom, please, tell me you're okay. I can get you patched up. I can help both of you. I promise. Just, please don't do this," my voice quivered with fear. They closed in on me, and my claustrophobia surged.
"But honey, we want to," my dad declared, pressing the knife's tip against my stomach as he moved a strand of hair from in front of my face to behind my ear. I flinched, consumed by terror.
"Please, stop this. Look, I don't know how you're alive, but I can help you. You won't bleed out," I stammered, trembling uncontrollably.
I locked eyes with each of them, and I saw madness lurking within, as though my death was the only thing occupying their thoughts.
My dad chuckled darkly, "No, we don't care about that right now," he remarked before stabbing me. It was then that I realized how dull the blade was.
pressing the knife's tip against my stomach as he moved a strand of hair from in front of