Pointed silver scissors on top of a dark brown wooden desk with a cup holding pens and pencils and a chair tucked under the desk

What a bloody mess.

When they came to the office space in the four-bedroom home, their agent couldn’t say enough about the bright space and the walk-out deck. All Sam could think about was how she could grab the pointed scissors from the desk and stab them though her wife’s back.

What a bloody mess.

Sam wondered if others ever thought about it…looking at the skin, tight across the body of someone you know, maybe someone you love, and thinking about piercing it with something sharp. A steak knife. A pair of scissors…

What would it be like?

It isn’t that you want to hurt them, or that you have murderous thoughts, but it’s an obsession, Sam thought. Yes, an obsessive curiosity.

What would the resistance be like? What would the aftermath be like? A look of shock? Horror? A look of questioning and confusion that says, why?

What would it sound like? Quite quiet to begin with, Sam was sure. Would questions follow, flowing out of their mouth like the blood from the wound?

Would they forgive you?

“What are you doing with the scissors, Sam?” Monica asked with a furrowed brow.

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