(Prompt: start with “touching the edge” … Write for 15 min.)
Touching the edge of the glass table, I ran my finger along its sharpness. When I pulled my hand away, I saw the thin line of blood on my finger that quickly swelled into a thickening line of self-hatred. I watched it drip onto the perfect whiteness of the thick carpet, marring it, vivid red. I got up from the white leather couch and walked, barefoot and listless, across the room. The vertical blinds made slat-like shadows on the floor, my feet were buried in the soft pile of the carpet. The coolness of the room near the glass door was green where the deep emerald of the leaves outside reflected their color inside. I walked slowly at first, then quickened as I drew closer to the door. I pushed hard and slammed the glass. It crunched then broke, shattering into a million pieces around me like stars showering down. There were few shards, but I drew my thin white arm across one of them laterally. White skin, white carpet and red blood blood blood.
Soon, I felt nothing.