"Wait… I think he's dead? Did we really just kill a child?"
That trembling voice—Tom's voice—felt distant, like it was coming from the bottom of a well, and even through the haze swallowing my consciousness I could sense the way tears clung desperately to the corners of his eyes.
Because he hadn't meant to go this far, hadn't planned to kill anyone at all, only to vent his bottled-up fear and anger, maybe teach me a lesson or two to make himself feel righteous for once, yet things had spiraled so violently and so fast that even he couldn't keep up anymore.
"Stop panicking, Tom!" another boy snapped, his tone sharp and forcefully calm, as if sheer confidence could erase what they'd done.
"So what if he's dead? We should be celebrating! We finally took care of the horrifying cursed child!"
His voice carried a warped sense of pride, the kind born from borrowed faith and shallow convictions.
