Dakota South

There’s blood on the wall, blood on the floor, blood everywhere. The thick metallic scent fills the air and my mouth, coating my throat and making it hard to breathe. I wonder vaguely who the blood belongs to. Does it really matter? It’s washing away now, slipping slowly down the drain and soon it will be gone forever. I still don’t know who it belongs to.

I feel something sticky on my arm. It doesn’t matter.

Here’s a question: If a tree falls in the woods and there’s no one around, does it still make a sound? Here’s an answer: No one fucking cares.

Well, if that’s the case, here’s another question: You’re holding the gun but I’m pulling the trigger; who’s to blame now? Here’s another answer: There’s no gun.

It’s a metaphor.