Tag: death, dying, killing, pain

I hate my left hand. I hate to look at it. I hate it when it stutters and trembles and reminds me that my identity is gone. But I look at it anyway; because it also reminds me that I’m going to find the boy who took everything away from me. I’m going to kill the boy who killed me, and when I kill him, I’m going to do it with my left hand.