MONICA.
Tears flow down my cheeks, and I hastily wipe them.
"No, that can't be real," I whisper to myself, hoping that if I repeat it enough, it's going to come true.
My denial is still strong. It's not that I don't want to be alive, it's just that I completely hate the thought that the poison is living inside me. A monster waiting to rear its ugly head.
I would rather know that I wasn't poisoned instead.
I jump to my feet, reaching across the table to find a knife that hasn't been touched by the poisoned food or the spills. I test the end of it against the edge of my finger, and when I'm finally sure that it's sharp, I start to slice the skin along my hand, where the needle poked through.
With bated breath, I wait for the poison to trickle out. I wait for my body to expel it. Maybe if I'm really immune, I can get rid of it this way and never worry about it ever again.
But the only thing that comes out of me is my own blood, bright red and thick, free of any traces of the poison.
"No,
