For the months I had lived this hell, I had never been physically injured before. There had been plenty of stress, anxiety, and frustration—but never blood. I didn’t know what to do about my fingers. My first thought was to apply a disinfectant, but this place seems so sterile that I doubt there are any bacteria to even infect me. But my fingers are bleeding down my palms and onto my wrists, dripping and staining the floor mat I was sitting on. I need to put pressure on the wounds so they’ll close.


    I didn’t have anything like gauze or bandages. The best I had was my calligraphy paper. I had no idea what else to do besides plant my aching fingertips down onto a stack of them. It made me a little nauseous to see the bright red liquid spread around my fingers, where the paper was readily soaking it up.


    I couldn’t check my phone right now, even if I wanted to.


    Thoughts were flying through my mind about how Rose might have responded. Anger was a possibility, but confusion seemed even more likely. Why would I choose to stay in hell? Didn’t I want my old life back? Didn’t I want my old friends back?


    I thought the same thing. I was confused, but that’s because I was forgetting the obvious. Even though I hated it, there was a very good reason for me to not return. It was just too obvious for me to notice. But it’s how I ended up here in the first place. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.


    No matter how much I loved my old home… I didn’t belong there.


    I was never supposed to be there in the first place.


    The thought of returning filled me with excitement, with pleasure. Even now I want to run back to my phone and tell her I’ve changed my mind. But in truth, I haven’t. I’ve never felt more resolute about anything.


    This hell has grown weary on me. I’m living every day almost entirely devoid of everything I loved the most about the world I grew up in. It’s painful, at times. But through the frustration, and the lack of stimulation, I can see it.


    I can see myself reflected in it. This world was made for me, which is no exaggeration. I have no purpose. I’ve never had a purpose. There’s nothing I’ve ever been supposed to do, nothing to achieve, nothing to spend my life working towards. What other place could I possibly belong?


    This place is perfectly purposeless.


    It’s my home.


    Eventually, it seemed like my fingers had stopped bleeding. At least, they stopped hurting so bad. When I pulled my fingers off the now-sticky paper, the blood splatters didn’t look at all like I had expected. It should have just been ten red splotches, but it wasn’t. It took the shape of something much different.