By Tina Wingham
The sweat slid down my neck as the tremor began, my body shaking with the weight of what I must become.
This was it—the moment to stop being weak, to shed the useless, pathetic shell clinging to me. To survive, I had to embrace the darkness within, the shadows that frightened yet secretly thrilled me. Every quiver of disgust was a barrier I had to crush, every fear a wall I had to break through.
My grip tightened around the knife. Silent, steady, I leaned forward and drove the blade deeper into the cold flesh sprawled across my autopsy table.
Interesting take on an autopsy. Well done.
Brilliant piece of writing! Literally keeps the reader guessing until the last two words, which is why it is so cleverly done. Lovely description of mounting tension.