You. Me. The knife in your hand. My endless crying. Your face saying I have to do it. I don’t understand. How could you do this? Was it a hoax all this time? I beg you, but you don’t listen nor care. Then, I hear the knife in my body. You held me like it was the first time. You cry. I screamed in a silent way. You left me there lying down. The last thing I heard was you saying sorry but it was too late—you had my blood in your hands. The people said that after you killed me,