And so I sit here twisting a tight black thread onto my finger. The thin line spins around and around my pale flesh, creating a deep crease.

Listen to what they have to say about you. Alone and only young. Never wanted and never looked after properly. Is it your fault you turned out like this?

I watch the blood seep from beneath the jet black string. I am not alarmed. It runs down the length of my finger, staining the stark white of my clothing.

It’s not surprising they argue about your existence. You float through the halls, listening to cryptic lyrics in peaceful music and barely utter a word. They worry about you but you’re ignorant of this.

The thread is drenched now. I unwrap it from my purple finger, amazed at how the blood in my body manages to flow in the state I’m in.

They write notes on parchment and expect you to read them and heed their warning. They need your signature but you know all they want is your soul.

A drop of blood. I begin to weave this bloody thread into a story about life.