Karina
I spend the rest of the day crying and moping around, drowning in a haze of self-pity and despair. My body lies limp in the bathtub, the cold water lapping against my skin as it gradually tints red; tainted by the slow, steady bleed from my wounds.
I don't know how long I stay there—shivering, soaked, hollow—but eventually, my tears run dry. The bleeding stops. And somewhere in the silence, a sharp clarity slices through the fog in my mind.
I don't want to be weak anymore. I don't want to be the helpless girl they think I am.
So I do what I should've done the moment I realized I'd died and been reborn: I sit down and think. Really think. Hard.