The blade hovered over my wrist.
Stunned, I slammed the blade on the windowsill. I knew I needed to toss the thing out the window, but I couldn’t; part of me hoped that the wind would simply carry it away. I turned away from the window and took a few steps away. I felt the blade burning behind me like some demonic presence, but I pushed aside the desire for it with not now not now—maybe later.
From outside my door, I heard the murmur of distant conversation: my parents. I knew they were talking about me, even though they were too far away to hear. No doubt I’d been the cause of many sleepless nights ever since they’d adopted me; the thought made my heart split with guilt. A memory flashed in my mind: me, seven years old, curled up on my Little Mermaid blankets and crying because of night terrors. Me, thinking how I should sprint down the hall and bang on my parents’ door, but remaining paralyzed because these people weren’t my parents. Not really. Me, nearly jumping out of my skin when Not-Mom opened the door, followed by Not-Dad. Me, unable to keep myself from latching onto them when they sat next to me, one on either side, their bodies flanking me against the creatures that prowled in the shadows.