He woke up with blood on his hands. Again. It had soaked through his shirt, crusted beneath his fingernails, splashed across his collar like he'd leaned into a storm. The room was dark. Heavy curtains drowned the early morning light, turning everything dull gray. He didn't remember drawing them. Didn't remember much at all, except the burning in his throat and the weight in his chest. Not guilt. That was too clean a word. This was something heavier. Rotting inside him. He sat up slowly on the motel bed. Springs groaned under his weight. He blinked a few times, letting the details settle. The place was standard roadside trash: nicotine walls, cheap art screwed into plaster, a buzzing mini fridge in the corner. Motel 6, maybe 8. He'd checked in under a fake name. He always did. But even if he hadn't, no one would remember him. He left people with holes--physical or otherwise.
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