I killed someone.
The thought didn’t arrive gently. It slammed into me, sharp and violent, like my mind was trying to punish me for not reacting fast enough.
I killed someone.
My hands started shaking harder, fingers trembling like they didn’t belong to me anymore. My legs felt weak, useless beneath me, like if I stood up, they’d give out completely.
I’m a murderer.
The word sat heavily in my chest. Too heavy. My breathing turned uneven, shallow pulls of air that didn’t feel like enough. My heart was racing, banging against my ribs so hard it hurt.
Dante shouldn’t have been there.
This shouldn’t have happened.
My head felt crowded, thoughts crashing into each other, refusing to line up properly. Every time I tried to slow them down, they splintered again.
My father never let peopl
