"I-I'm bleeding?"
I stare at the shard of glass that reflected my blank and teary eyes. It was embedded deeply into my right arm, which now lay limp at my side. In my haste to deflect the attack, my arm paid the price for it. It reminded me of the time when my mother was wringing a chicken's neck in front of me. She then proceeded to slit it and then bleed it dry. I didn't eat the chicken that she prepared that night, telling my mother that I wasn’t hungry when really the lingering smell of chicken blood made me too nauseous to eat. I was about four.
My other hand tremble as I delicately wrap it around my wound, the blood pooling under my shoes. As I stare, I wonder why my wound was bleeding so much. At the behest of any doctor around, I grip the shard, cutting my fingers and pull, eliciting a gasp. I fling the shard back at the unmoving feet of the child. Who for some reason just stop and was standing still as a statue. They just watched and I decide to ignore whatever is happening right now. I squeeze my wound and continue to stare in morbid fascination. The more I stare, the more I hear a soft drumming, which made my head spin.
Was it me, but why was everything suddenly so muffled? I shake my head, only to aggravate the incoming migraine. My vision is ebbing in and out, my eyelids feel so tired all of a sudden. Am I shaking or was it the wall that was currently splatter with my blood? I slid down onto the moist carpet with a wheezing laugh. It's suddenly so cold and my fingertips felt like they were being poked at by many tiny needles.
The child was still there, only a few feet away as I try to inhale, only to realize that I was gaping like a fish out of breath. Oh, I'm panicking. What were you supposed to do again? Grounding yourself, right? But I can't even breath. I can't even think.
I have to get away then. It's not safe, my killer was still here. Why couldn't I move my limbs, did the child stab my leg too (I glance at perfectly fine legs), why was everything so loud. It's so loud.
I have to get up, get up, getup-
I harshly suck in a cry, coughing as I scramble to stand. I only took one step away from the bloody wall before falling onto my knees.
No, no, no, nonononono-
I got up again, only to fall.
Again.
And again.
The child watches on as the injured adult stumbles over their shaking legs. Their wound continues to bleed as the adult accidently smears it all over himself, mumbling under their breath, each breath coming in and out faster and faster. They didn’t seem to be all there, their mind drifting farther and farther away. By the time the human was nearly red and blue in the face, their struggle ceased as they pant through their panic. Then the adult drops to the floor like a puppet with their strings cut.
And I lay there, sobbing. Alone, out of breath, moist carpet sticky with blood and tears. I press my face into my shoulders, damping them, to hide from the rooms and the quiet child. Fuck, I'm so damn useless! Can't even get up and run. Is this really how it will end?
"I-I'm alive, I'm fine, I'm okay."
The room watches the wanderer drown themselves in their madness, clinging to useless reassurances. Eventually the sobs turn into light sniffles.
A surprisingly gentle hand landed on my head. It was so small, yet the strength in it was beyond a mere human. I blink my tears and question if I was hallucinating. The child from earlier was now patting my head, tilting their head menacingly. Silence stretches between us. As if the roles were reversed, I felt drowsy and vaguely felt like I was being put to sleep. I despair, my mind slowing down. Was I really going to fall asleep like this? In front of this creature? When was the last time another person comforted me though? Like the rooms, I was lured into darkness by the gentlest and most deceitful touch, even if it was from a monster.
Then what does that make me?