The drumbeat sounds like bullets fired from a gun held by someone who should never have it.
It sounds like disappointment and regret, and all your childhood fears of never being perfect.
They pierce through you, and you feel the blood flow, but not from the bullet wounds in your head.
The stream of red flows down your arm, and you watch as rivulets of your life source flows from the gash you've made on your arm and onto the purple bed sheet, making black dots in the process.
You watch in morbid fascination as you take your switch blade, and run it lightly across your arm again, watching the line turn white, then pink, and then finally red, and blood spurts from the wound like an underground spring.
The droplets of black turn into a puddle, and you know this will stain.
You ask yourself why you've done this. It's simple.
You felt like there was too much blood in your veins, pumping through your brain.
You could hear the whoosh and slush of it as it rushed through your skull, it made too much noise.
It sounded too much like the world outside.
The red river has gotten thicker but flows slower now, more languidly, and you stare at it as your head finally lightens, and realize you need to sleep.
You don't know if the drumbeats will be able to wake you up this time.
