It was really beautiful. And I love beautiful things. I've always been attracted to beauty. Now, many of you will probably say I'm materialistic; no, no, not materialistic. What's the word… hmmm… oh yes, "the one who only judges a book by its cover." Yeah, fine, say whatever you want; I am one of those. I judge a book by its cover. That's what compels me to open it in the first place Man! So yes, I'm attracted to beauty. I'm all up for it.
That actually reminds me; when I was young, maybe in fourth grade, there was this girl in my class. I don't remember how she was as a student, like I don't know if she ever got good marks or not. But one thing I knew was that even before I knew her, or even saw her clearly, I had already started to like her.
I don't know if she was beautiful; or if what she had could even be called "beautiful" by worldly standards. But one thing I was sure of: I liked her. Like i really liked her.
…Wait. Hold up. Does that mean I'm not a superficial person? Yeahhh, I take back my words; I'm not superficial after all, I guess. That means anything I like, anything I love, is automatically beautiful in my eyes. Doesn't that mean I have beautiful eyes?
Damnnnn
But now you'd probably call me self-obsessed, right? Well, honestly, isn't that a good thing? To love yourself? These days half the pop stars and singers are screaming about self-love. And here I am; already ahead of the curve. I've achieved the milestone. You should congratulate me, not call me selfish or obsessive.
Ugh… there I go again, wandering into another overthinking episode. Apologies. Coming back to the blotch. The red, beautiful, bloody blotch.
I stared at it. And it stared back at me; like a self-aware maiden shrieking at a shameless pervert with her high-pitched voice: "Where do you think you're looking?" My ears burned. My first piece of writing in months; sacrificed to my own blood.
No, no. Not sacrificed. Stamped with my blood. Yes, that sounds more romantic, doesn't it? Damn. Even my explanations are becoming romantic now.
I looked around the room, paper in hand. Where to throw it? I wanted to toss it away, but not crumple it. So I held it flat, loosened my fingers, and let it fall. It rested on the floor. I pulled out another paper, but then this severe, gnawing guilt hit me; as if I'd just committed some ignorant sin. A sin enough to banish me, cut off my hands, maybe even execute me without warning, without a second thought.
I immediately snatched it back up.
"Where should I put you, miss?" I asked the paper.
Without waiting for an answer, I flicked it toward the dustbin under my table. And damn; the arrogant piece landed perfectly, lying flat across the rim of the bin like it owned the place, and was too proud to fall in.
Ugh. I picked it up again and finally placed it on the side of my table. Like a precious bouquet given by a lover, one you keep in sight so you can feel the energy and love radiating from it; until it withers away.
Except this paper wouldn't wither. Not anytime soon, I presume.
I let out a sigh.
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