Rest in Pieces
(Sleep is for the living, apparently.)
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I don’t sleep.
Ghosts don’t need to.
But that doesn’t mean we can’t dream.
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A Familiar Red
It starts the same way it always does.
A dimly lit room. The walls lined with plastic—for easy cleanup. A chair in the center. Someone tied to it.
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Someone begging.
I don’t look at their face. I never do. I just watch the way their body trembles, the way their breath comes in short, frantic gasps.
It’s always the same.
Always the same kind of man.
The kind that takes what isn’t theirs.
The kind that thinks no one will believe her.
The kind that calls it a misunderstanding when they get caught.
I roll my wrist, testing the weight of the blade in my hand. The air is thick with the smell of copper.
Red drips onto the plastic.
Art.
It’s always been about the art.
If the world lets them get away with it—if the law fails to punish them—then I will. And if they don’t understand the weight of their sins?
I’ll carve it into them.
One line at a time.
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Crimson Strokes
I lift the knife.
The man’s eyes go wide.
He screams—
And I wake up.
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Back to (Un)Reality
I bolt upright, breathless, my hands gripping sheets that I shouldn’t even be able to feel.
My room is still dark. The city outside is still alive, glowing in neon blues and reds. There’s no plastic-lined walls, no chair, no pleading voices.
Just me.
And my reflection in the window.
I look… normal. Pale, wild-haired, eyes a little too sharp for comfort. But it’s the way my lips curve up slightly—just the barest hint of a smile—that unsettles me.
Because the thing is…
It wasn’t really a nightmare.
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Morning Regrets? Nope.
I force myself to relax, leaning back against the pillows.
So what if I dreamed about it? It’s not like I regret anything.
They deserved it. Every single one of them.
And if I had the chance?
I’d do it again.
