Last night I cut my hand on a shard of the mirror in the hallway. I was home alone.

My hand, the palm to be precise, started to bleed and small drops followed me as I ran to the bathroom.

I avoided turning on the light so as not to see the cut. In the dim light, from the hallway though, while the water was washing my hand, something moved.

I didn't feel like they were shadows, I even seemed to hear a watery, liquid sound, so I turned off the tap and went to check.

Attached to the wall, the drops had grown enormous until they reached human likeness. They moved oily next to each other and I stepped back.

Yet, an unknown desire made of warmth grew from some chasm within me, my skin turned a vivid red and I couldn't move anymore.

I watched them sway. They advanced, leaving a trail of blood on the ground, growing even larger.

That warmth set my skin on fire. They began to ripple the surface with small air bubbles, as if boiling, and I looked closer. Each of them had the face of a woman I had desired, immersed in my blood.

Having grown even larger, they tried to engulf me. I remembered the identical desire towards each of them while we made love, and then, I thought, they would vanish elsewhere.

Instead, memory is in the body and flows entirely in our blood and does not lie.

I don't know how much later I got up from the hallway floor. My hand, encrusted with blood, open upwards, hurt me, but in my other hand I had this masterpiece. Slaves of Hell. An absolute masterpiece of literature, not just horror.

I sat down, today being Sunday, leaned my back against the wall and continued to read, sometimes looking around to make sure I had hidden every drop of desire well, deep inside me.