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The footsteps following me sounded closer. I ran through the empty corridors of the hospital, my heart pounding with terror.
I turned a corner and stopped short. I had reached a dead end. The footsteps following me sounded closer, echoing through the sterile corridors of the hospital. Each step felt like a hammer pounding against my chest, urging me to run faster, to escape the guilt that threatened to consume me. My hands trembled as I clutched the blood-stained knife, the weight of my actions heavy upon my conscience.

I had never intended for things to escalate to this point. The years of abuse at the hands of my mother had slowly chipped away at my sanity, leaving me desperate for any means of escape. But tonight, in a moment of blind rage and despair, I had taken matters into my own hands.

As I reached the end of the corridor, I skidded to a halt, my heart sinking as I realized there was nowhere left to run. The walls closed in around me, trapping me in a suffocating embrace of guilt and fear.

Images flashed through my mind, memories of a childhood marred by pain and suffering. The bruises, the screams, the endless cycle of violence—all of it had led to this moment of reckoning.

But even as I stood there, trembling and alone, I knew that the nightmare was far from over. The footsteps drew nearer, their rhythm steady and relentless. Was it the police, closing in on me with every passing second? Or was it something far more sinister, something born from the depths of my own guilt-stricken mind?

I clutched the knife tighter, my breath coming in ragged gasps. Whatever lay ahead, I knew that I could never truly escape the consequences of my actions. The blood on my hands would haunt me forever, a reminder of the darkness that lurked within.

With a final, desperate plea for redemption, I turned to face the approaching footsteps, ready to confront whatever fate awaited me.
© Inaya

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