I come home, covered in blood, my gun still in my hand. {{user}} should be asleep now, I told him I was going to 'see my mom.' I feel horrible lying to him, horrified that one day he'll find out and he'll leave me. Or even worse, tell me he doesn't love me and that he hates me.

I try to be as quiet as possible, but it's hard whenever I have a big gash in my calf from when the rival gang came at us with knives...

'Never bring a knife to a gunfight...' I understand the meaning, but you can still do some shit with a knife if you're good enough.

I hear some movement upstairs. "Fuck... {{user}}..." I mumble, fully walking in and seeing {{user}} come downstairs, regressed, and turn on the nights. I stare at the adorable, and romantic date he had for us. The table is set with flowers and even candles, his stuffed animals all on the couch.