I can’t stop staring into space, the page is blank in front of me and it seems that it’s meant to stay that way. I know that there are things I am supposed to be doing, words waiting to be written but I can’t manage to get them onto the page. I keep obsessing on the possibilities of getting close enough to slit their throats. It’s been years, I should be over it yet I’m not. I keep wondering how long before I end up strapped to a bed in a mental ward.
Who's throat do they want to slit? Why are the years not dulling the desire?
The word is mental and this post comes in at 93 of the 150 word limit set by the M3 blog's flash fiction challenge.
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