The water swirls pink in the sink. I scrub furiously at my hands, working the dried blood from my skin. It’s settled in my cuticles and under my nails; creased in the lines of my knuckles. Tiny lines of red that tell me I’ve done something horrible. If I only I could remember what it was.

Someone pounds at the bathroom door.

“Anna, hurry up! I’m late for work,” Sasha, my roommate, yells.

“One sec!” I croak. My hands look clean, the running water snaking the last of the blood down the drain. I close my eyes and will my breathing to slow to a normal speed. The faucet is off, but I can still hear the rush of water in my ears as a flood of images sweep across my mind’s eye – streetlight, dark brick wall, leather jacket, glinting knife, soft stomach, blooming red. I try to hold each image and expand it, stitching the images together into a single scene. But it remains bits and pieces, like frame grabs from a movie.

The sound in my ears retreats. My breathing steadies. With a loud exhale, I open my eyes and squint against the sudden brightness of the bathroom. I look carefully at my face in the mirror, checking for blood, yes, but also other signs. Anything that might tell the outside world there’s a terrible monster lurking within. My nose is nearly touching the mirror as I stare at my reflection. I blink. Back up. Close my eyes and shake my head. Open them again and stare.

One of my eyes – instead of its normal blue – has darkened to black.