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.