She looked in the mirror, her hands a shredded mess, oozing crimson from her depths. She felt the rhythmic beat of her heart, followed by a pulse in her veins that sent more thick blood out of the dozens of cuts wildly marked on her palms and wrists. The liquid itself a constant, thirstful reminder, like a bell dully ringing in her head, of the desperate slashing that brought about this gore. Her eyes met the mirror again, taunting herself with an abhorrent mixture of contained insanity and a lack of remorse. The muscles of her lungs ragged and heavy, uncontrolled in their sporadic movements, left her shivering and cold. She could do nothing but stand there above the sink, her hands rested on the smooth, white sides, the blood of her actions tainting the innocent color.
Drips echoed throughout the bathroom, piercing her ears. It was oddly exhausting, yet her adrenaline wouldn’t allow for rest. Her mind hurt. She hurt. As the blaring lights of red and blue flashed through her room's window, sirens wailing in the distance, ever approaching, the rest of her would reawaken. The buzzing of flies devouring the remains of the corpse, hacked and destroyed, and the stench of rotting flesh that accompanied it became so apparent to her senses. The mirror barely captured its sight in the tub.