“I killed him,” I whisper, studying the central chest plate of the saddle. That has to be where everything connects, right? He has to get out of this thing somehow.
Mom will be so proud to know I’m just like the others now. Just like her. My empty belly turns over again, and I retch like my body is trying to expel the guilt.
Ugh I hate it when they have morals. Yes, killing is bad but like really. Him?
— Dec 09, 2024 04:24PM
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