The coffin is ornate in its design. A sleek and shiny walnut adorned with golden accents.

A single shoelace holds the coffin shut, indistinguishable from my own.

It could be my shoelace, for all I know. I threw those shoes away.

Along with the rest of my clothes from that night.

A sick notion.

A perverted and twisted wit.

A reminder that digs ragged claws into already torn and damaged flesh.

Never allowing the wound to heal.

It’s a message. A message for me. A warning.

It whispers. It mocks.

“You’re next”

“Your fault.”

“You did this.”

It’s right.

And who am I to argue?

I deserve it.