At first, I thought I was writing to remember. Then I realized I was writing to survive. The words didn’t come out neat or gentle — they bled, stumbled, argued their way onto the page. I didn’t dress them up or make them polite. I let them be as ugly, honest, and alive as the life that made them.

Every story inside Bloody Fingers was a piece of me I’d buried. Every page was a confession to the part of myself I kept running from. It wasn’t about revenge or validation — it was about release. I wasn’t trying to prove I could write. I was trying to prove I could still feel.

That night, when the first paragraph finally broke through the silence, I didn’t know what I was building. I just knew it was real. The pain, the laughter, the guilt, the truth — all tangled up, refusing to wait any longer. That’s the night Bloody Fingers was born — not out of inspiration, but out of exhaustion, out of needing to breathe again.

Because sometimes the story doesn’t ask for permission to be told. It just shows up, bloody and uninvited, and dares you to let it live.