Streaks of blood smeared haphazardly on the coffee table, the hardwood, the duvet. My insides burst like fireworks. I watch myself as I run through the apartment, screaming her name. This is a movie and I am not me but someone paid to be me who doesn’t quite know how to move in my body. Tearing through her hiding spots, calling my boyfriend, “Blood everywhere . . . I can’t find her ...” She suddenly emerges from the bedroom, the tip of her tail that she’s been compulsively biting coated in crusted blood. I pull her into my arms and come back to life.
Lauren Zazzara is a writer in Buffalo, NY. When she isn't reading, (loudly) tapping at her keyboard, or napping, she is likely adoring her cat. Website: www.lmzazzara.com Instagram: @laurenzaz Twitter: @lauren_zaz