Unstable

Haze wrapped around me as I stared at the woman at my feet, and the skin peeling back from the wound on her temple; blood pooled beneath her. She'd been reaching for the gun, her fingers inches from it.

My face itched from where she'd cut me with her nails.

But she was dead.

Sirens wailed in this distance. As I walked outside to meet the police—and my fate—all I could think of was:

I didn't have a choice.