"If I’ve got to suffer, it may as well be at your hands, your pretty hands” -Jean-Paul Sarte, No Exit We can never leave the house that drips blood. This house leaks and drips with the bile we fill it with. The only things holding us here are watchful eyes of expectation . I tried to claw my way out, but the eyes saw me and reminded me of my place. Yes, it's a rotten existence, but it's the only existence fit for people like us. We tear each other apart, and stitch each other back together all the same. Our blood drips down, from one person’s skin to the other, the patterns of the wallpaper fades and the nasty weeds overgrow, blocking out the windows, keeping out the light, keeping in the depravity. Because we can’t leave, can we? We may even die in this house. If we do, that means we’ll die beside each other. I’ll die beside the one who ripped out my heart, but I’ll all also die next to the one who put it back. And I see no ending more fitting.