shouldnthavedonethatyouhavedonethatyoushoulddonethatyoushouldnthavethatyoushouldnthavedone

he's crouched on the floor, knees out at 45° angles.

the steady drip of blood.

drip.

drip.

drip.

the blade in his hands is coated in red, its hilt encased in his palms.

his eyes gaze down at the mangled corpse beneath his slumped body.

drip.

drip.

drip.

his stare lingers, unfazed, unblinking.

drip.

drip.

the blade digs and slices through its victim's flesh for one more time, as if uncontrolled.

one more time.

one more time.

it takes a few seconds for him to realise that this is an order.

the blade, once again, forces its way down.

a smile flickers onto his face.

this is not voluntary.

he starts to laugh. an unhinged, gravelly laugh.

the blade moves more forcefully, more frantically.