Yesterday

Falling to the floor, your head slams against the side of the cupboard.

After what could be seconds, could be hours, you feel a rough wetness against your cheek. Struggling to open one eye, you peer through the haze and try to make out what is causing it.

Stan is licking your face, desperately trying to get you to stop playing and start feeding. Pushing him aside, you sit up, all the while trying not to look at the knife or the pool of blood that is rapidly spreading across the floor.

The fall has lodged the knife deeper within your arm.