I’ve been trying to get my plot outlined, since is a little over a week away. Yesterday, I kept thinking about how the story would begin. And this excerpt kept repeating over and over in my head on my walk between my car and my classes:
I killed him first.
Six months and that’s the thought that I keep going back to. It’s what shakes me awake in the morning. Before the invasion, before the genocide, before anyone knew about the infection, I killed him.
I lie still, trying not to think about it, but I can feel it on my hands. I remember exactly how soft his hair was in my palms. I know exactly the sound his skull made as it cracked against the wall. I can rub my hands against my thighs until they become red and raw, but the memory will never go away. I’ll always be the one that killed him first.
currently listening to: Dear Maria, Count Me In by All Time Low