pulse

I hear it—my heart, their heart, hammering, slamming against ribs like it wants out, like it’s screaming all the things I never could. I’ve been ignored, laughed at, pushed down, and now they run, they run, and I remember everything, every look, every word, and it fuels me. The knife—cold, heavy, real, I feel it in my hand, I feel it in theirs, glinting under the moon like it’s alive, like it knows me better than I know myself. Metal bites, skin trembles, and the rush—God, the rush is mine and theirs, mine and theirs and mine again. I taste fear, I taste rage, it curls in my stomach, burns in my veins, the urges coil tighter than a noose, I can’t stop them, I don’t want to, and I see them—panicked, blinking, they’re part of me, or maybe I’m part of them, or maybe we’re just two bodies breathing the same terror. The sanctuary—walls shrink, ceilings drop, their home, my hiding place, no one is safe, nowhere is safe, shadows watching, me watching, the knife waits, I wait, we wait, and everything is quiet except the pulse, pulsing, pulsing, pulsing. I am angry. I am tired. I am scared. I am the hunter. I am the hunted. I am the steel. I am the blood. And still—I breathe. We breathe. One pulse. Two. Blurring. Breaki