Red stained my hands and clothes, spreading to every nearby surface. I looked in the shattered mirror, in the corner I saw the flash of a knife; it was as if it was reminding me of what had just occurred. I focus back onto my reflection, no sympathy or grieve. She deserved this, she knew he was mine. She dared to cross a deeply rooted line and this was her consequence. Even if it had been years since I saw him, he was still mine. And how dare she touch something that wasn’t hers. I had always told him that if he wasn’t going to love me, he wasn’t going to love anyone.