Have you ever think about dangerous thing? Like, how will it feels when you slammed your body to the road, or how will your fingers will survive if you drag your hands while your motorcycle is running. Have you?

Maureen lifted her tote bag, it was heavy on her left hand. Her right one felt like burning. She stared at her right palm for the God knows how many times. The red lines were still visible. Even though the scars were slowly healing, she still can felt the, yes, burn, and she, somehow, satisfied.

She just cut her right palm, one right below her thumb, made long lines across her palm; one on her middle finger’s side; one on the pinky finger. With a fresh and clean razor blade, of course. She couldn’t deal with tetanus or something similar.

I stare at my reflection. When I smile, she smiles. When I frown, she frowns. When I point the gun’s tip to my head, she does it too. And then there is blood running down our face, like honey dripping down from the bee’s nest. It is blue, not red, and when I push my index finger into the hole, it lets out the blue blood intensely.

The blue blood is making such a messy mess in this room. But it adds the colour. This room is lacking of colour. The wall is white, and the bed is too, and the lamp, and everything. The only coloured thing inside this room is me, and my blood now.