Perhaps it was my fault: a fictional short monologue

Perhaps it was my fault.

I should’ve imagined that, walking alone in a dark alleyway at night, it could’ve happened. Yes, it was totally my fault.

That one time, last summer, that was also on me. The skirt I wore was way too short, my lipstick too red; I should’ve known this could come across the wrong way.

It was my bad on New Year’s too, at that party. I was so drunk I could barely walk, it was only natural that my friends would take advantage of me.

Even that time at work, I should have seen it coming, because the cut on my blouse was inappropriately low, my heels too high. My boss was right in punishing me.

Tonight, however, I was just at my house, on my couch, wearing my pajamas. I wasn’t wearing makeup, nor shoes, nor showy clothes, and I was perfectly sober and conscious.

So I’m beginning to think that, perhaps, this wasn’t my fault. That, even the other times, it was, in fact, NEVER my fault.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, it’s too late now” I remind myself, staring at the blood leaking out of my wound, my boyfriend washing the knife in the kitchen sink.