This morning, I woke up to something unsettling—fingerprints on my leg, clear as day. 👀 The strange part? I don’t sleep with my hands on my legs, and these weren’t just any marks. They were more like welt marks, the kind that brought back memories of when my momma took that belt to these legs. 😳 The sting, the sharpness—they were all too familiar, yet out of place in my peaceful sleep. 😴
I lay there, staring at the prints, trying to piece together how they got there. Was it just a restless night, or something more? 🤔 Did I somehow press my own fingers into my skin? But the marks seemed… different. More deliberate. As if someone—or something—had left them there. 🕵️♀️
I’ve been trying to shake off the uneasy feeling that’s settled in since I noticed them. It’s not just the mystery of how they appeared, but the way they feel like a message, a reminder of something I can’t quite put my finger on. 😶🌫️
Whatever it was, it left its mark. And I’m not sure I’ll ever know what happened here. 😨
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