My hand's drenched in blood. It'll soon dry and will agitate the fine hairs on my hand causing an itch. Peering over the busted skull, it's hard to feel guilty. I mean, life is all just a form of deceptive progression; and in our reality, you forced my hand.
I warned you time and time again. I pleaded with you, almost begging you to stop, yet your persistence was the key for the lock of my patience.
You didn't stop until I was forced to react. Maybe in the next life, you will desist from sending me bloody game requests.
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