Lucas's head pounded, as though someone was hammering away at his skull. The harsh light of morning sliced through the thin curtains, making his headache worse. He groaned, turning his face into the pillow, but the stale taste of last night's alcohol lingered on his tongue, sour and choking.
He reached for his phone, squinting at the dimly lit screen. The phone itself looked like something from another era—an old flip phone, the kind most people had tossed out years ago. The plastic shell was scratched and chipped, its edges worn down from years of use. A thick layer of cracked, clear tape was wrapped around the corners, holding it together like a makeshift repair. The screen, despite its age, still flickered to life, showing the message from the school: No school today. Stadium cleanup in progress. No other details. Just that it had been called off.
Lucas had refused to get a new one. This battered thing still worked—barely—and he wasn't about to replace it just because it looked ancient. The buttons were faded, the numbers barely visible, but it turned on every time he needed it to. He liked that. In a world where everything else felt like it was falling apart, this phone still had some fight in it.
The rumor mill had already started buzzing, though. Everyone had their own version of the truth. The pigs. The blood. Whatever happened, it was something they weren't going to forget anytime soon. Some people might've been freaked out, but Lucas felt a strange sense of relief. At least he didn't have to deal with school today, especially with the headache pounding behind his eyes.
Slowly, he sat up, the world spinning in a dizzying blur. Every movement sent a sharp pain through his temples. He rubbed his forehead, trying to quiet the relentless throb. His head felt like it was about to split open, the aftermath of last night's drinking binge. He'd stopped at three drinks, but still, this was his first time actually drinking, and now the hangover had him in its grip, clawing at his insides, and it wasn't letting go anytime soon.
As his eyes scanned the messy room, the events of the night before clawed their way back into his mind—Violet's angered face, and the way the darkness seemed to whisper to him in the quiet moments. But it wasn't just that. The blood, the slaughtered pigs, the twisted scene he had participated in—it all felt like a weight on his chest, suffocating him. He had been part of it. He had watched, numb, as it all unfolded. And now, the guilt gnawed at him, a constant reminder of what he'd allowed to happen.
With a sharp breath, Lucas swung his legs over the side of the bed, swaying slightly as he stood. He needed to wash the remnants of his recklessness off, to scrub away the shame that clung to him like sweat.
He stumbled to the bathroom, dragging his feet. The shower's steam rose in thick clouds as he turned it on, the hot water filling the air. Stripping off his clothes, he stepped under the torrent, letting the heat hit his skin like a thousand tiny needles. The sharp sting was almost a relief, distracting him from the ache in his muscles and the pounding in his skull.
He closed his eyes, leaning against the wall as the water cascaded down. Each scrub of his body felt like an attempt to cleanse more than just the grime of the night—he wanted to wash away the guilt, the darkness he had embraced without question, the part of him that had relished it.
When the shower finally ended, Lucas stepped out, grabbing a towel. He wiped the fog from the mirror, but the reflection that stared back at him was no better than the one he'd left behind in bed. His jet-black hair, still damp and messy, framed his face in unruly waves, a far cry from the sharp look he used to admire when he was younger. He could list the features that many would find attractive—strong cheekbones, a sharp jawline
and piercing blue eyes—but to him, they were just reminders of the person he couldn't stand. He hated the way his face looked, a twisted version of what was beautiful.
But when his gaze fell on his eyes, something stopped him. He stared at the blue, the same shade he'd shared with his sister, a colour that tied them together in a way nothing else could. He couldn't bring himself to hate them. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't. They were hers, too. The rest of him was revolting, but those eyes—those eyes were still a part of something he couldn't completely despise.
But right now they were bloodshot, the dark circles beneath them standing out starkly against his pale skin. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.
His body, lean but still showing signs of muscle forming, looked almost too delicate for his age, his teenage years still caught between boyhood and the first hints of adulthood. The hangover twisted at him, the faint tremor in his hands betraying his attempt at control. If he slapped his cheeks to wake himself up, they'd turn a furious red, which would only piss him off more.
He wrapped the towel around his waist and trudged back to his room, moving slowly, like the effort of even simple motions was too much. He dressed in a faded T-shirt and jeans, though the clothes didn't do much to mask the exhaustion that clung to him.
Standing in front of the mirror again, he ran a hand through his damp hair, trying to force some semblance of normalcy. It didn't work. He still looked like a wreck. But at least the worst of the hangover was fading, the headache now just a dull throb instead of the pounding that had greeted him earlier.
But the guilt? That would linger much longer.
———
Lucas made his way downstairs, the motion making his stomach churn. Each step felt heavier than the last as the dizziness still held him in a vice grip. When he entered the kitchen, he caught sight of Ms. Thomson was bustling about, moving with a purpose as she worked. Her presence was somehow calming, but today it only reminded him of how his own family had sometimes fallen short in offering that kind of warmth.
Her gaze lifted to meet his as he entered, and the soft expression on her face faltered just slightly as she took in his disheveled appearance. "Good morning, Lucas," she said, her voice gentle, though there was a subtle concern in her eyes. "You look like you're feeling rough. How much did you drink last night?"
He paused, his hand hovering over the glass of water on the counter. The question caught him off guard, and for a brief moment, he wondered just how much Ms. Thomson knew. Violet, with her love for gossip, was the obvious suspect. He couldn't quite picture her keeping quiet about his behavior the night before. Still, he wasn't sure if he'd be relieved or irritated if Violet had spilled the details.
"Too much," Lucas muttered, filling the glass and swallowing a long sip of water. He didn't feel like explaining himself. It wasn't like he owed her an answer. But she already seemed to know more than he expected.
Ms. Thomson nodded, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Hangovers can be brutal. I'll make you some toast and eggs. It might help settle your stomach."
As she moved to the stove, Lucas leaned against the counter, watching her. It was strange, how she could be both distant and somehow familiar at the same time. He didn't dislike her—no, she was decent enough. But he didn't like her either, not really.
As Ms. Thomson worked, Lucas slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, the faint aroma of cooking food barely reaching his senses through the fog of his hangover. The warmth of the kitchen was comforting, but it didn't do much to ease the ache in his head. He tried to close his eyes for a moment, but the sound of her steady movements only reminded him of how much he wanted silence.
" Lucas," she began, her voice as steady as ever, "underage drinking can seriously impact your health. Your brain's still developing, and alcohol can interfere with that."
Lucas couldn't help but groan, sinking further into the chair, his fingers drumming impatiently on the tabletop. He knew exactly what she was going to say next, and the last thing he wanted was to hear it from her. But he forced himself to stay polite—his parents had drilled respect for elders into him, and no matter how much he didn't want to hear it, he wouldn't be rude.
Ms. Thomson didn't seem to notice his internal eye-roll as she plated the food, her voice continuing on, oblivious to his discomfort. "It's not just about today. It can affect your health long-term. You're still young, and your body—"
"Yeah, I know," Lucas interrupted, a little more sharply than he meant to, but the words slipped out before he could stop them. He cleared his throat, trying to soften the edge. "I get it, Ms. Thomson."
She didn't seem phased, her focus still on the food as she set a steaming cup of herbal tea in front of him.
He picked up a piece of toast, chewing slowly, the blandness of it barely doing anything to settle his stomach. The nausea seemed to ease just a little with each bite, but it didn't stop his irritation.
Ms. Thomson sat down across from him, her gaze softer now, almost too understanding. "I've seen you go through a lot lately. And while I may not understand everything you're feeling, I care about you. We all do. So if you ever need to talk, I'm here."
He paused, his eyes flicking up to meet hers, a mix of emotions crossing his face. "Thanks, Ms. Thomson," he said quietly, feeling a flicker of something like gratitude, though it didn't quite reach his heart. "I appreciate it."
She smiled warmly, her concern still evident. "Just remember, Lucas, you don't have to face everything alone. It's okay to lean on others sometimes. And taking care of yourself—including making healthier choices—is an important part of that."
Lucas couldn't bring himself to say more. He just nodded, chewing a little faster than he should have. Her words hung in the air like a weight, one he wasn't sure he was ready to carry.
As Lucas finished his meal, he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching. The door to the kitchen opened, and Mr. and Mrs. Morton stepped in. Immediately, the atmosphere in the room shifted. Mrs. Morton's stern presence cast a shadow over the warmth that Ms. Thomson had created, while Mr. Morton, ever calm and collected, exuded a quiet authority.
Mr. Morton's gaze landed on Lucas, his expression unreadable. "I see you're finally up," he said, his voice low but firm. "And I see Ms. Thomson has been taking care of you."
Lucas didn't bother to look up from his plate. He wasn't in the mood for Mr. Morton's casual commentary, especially when he could still feel the dull ache of his hangover pressing against his temples. He simply nodded, not bothering to hide his irritation.
"Yeah, I'm here," Lucas muttered, pushing the food around on his plate. "Sorry if that's a problem."
Mrs. Morton didn't say anything, but her eyes narrowed as she looked at him, her lips tight with disapproval. Mr. Morton, on the other hand, seemed to study Lucas for a moment before speaking again.
"You know," Mr. Morton began, his voice taking on a slightly more serious tone, "your mother told me what happened yesterday."
The words hit Lucas like a sudden blow to the chest. His eyes flicked up to Mr. Morton's face, the word mother ringing in his ears. For a second, he forgot to breathe, the air in the room growing thick.
Lucas could feel the color drain from his face as his mind locked onto that single word. Mother.
He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice steady as he finally met Mr. Morton's gaze. "My mother's dead," he said, his words blunt and final.
Mr. Morton's expression didn't change, but the silence that followed seemed to stretch on for an eternity. Mrs. Morton stood by, her eyes flickering briefly between them, but neither of them said anything more. The weight of the moment hung in the air, thick and suffocating.
Lucas wasn't sure what he had expected from Mr. Morton's remark, but this uncomfortable silence, the subtle shift in the room, felt like an answer in itself. It was as if Mr. Morton had said the word just to see how Lucas would react, testing him without ever showing his cards.
Lucas leaned back in his chair, staring down at his plate, the words hanging in the air like a challenge he couldn't ignore.
Mr. Morton finally sighed, rubbing his temples as if the weight of the conversation was already exhausting him. "Lucas, we've talked about this. You're going through what every teenager goes through—puberty, confusion, and all the rest. But that doesn't mean you can keep pushing people away."
Lucas looked up at him, the words twisting something dark inside him. Puberty? He hated when they brushed off everything as just a phase. It was more than that, wasn't it? He wasn't like other kids. He didn't have a normal life. He didn't even feel human anymore. Maybe if he pushed people away, they wouldn't end up on the front page of the newspaper——lifeless and forgotten. It was better to be alone, to keep them at a distance before they could get too close.
He met Mr. Morton's gaze, his hands gripping the edge of the table as anger flared inside him. "Yeah, well, maybe I wouldn't have to push people away if you guys actually listened to me for once." His voice was tight, but the underlying bitterness in his words rang loud and clear.
Mr. Morton's brow furrowed, his lips thin with patience that Lucas knew was running out. "We are listening, Lucas. But respect is a two-way street. You can't expect to get it if you don't give it."
Lucas laughed bitterly, the sound more of a scoff than amusement. He turned his head away, unable to keep his anger from boiling over. "Right. Because you two have been such great role models." He felt the sharp edge of his words, a sharpness he didn't even care to hide anymore.
The silence between them grew thick, and Lucas could almost feel Mr. Morton's eyes on him, trying to piece together what he was really saying. But he didn't care. He wasn't looking for understanding. He wasn't sure he even wanted it.
Mr. Morton took a slow breath, clearly trying to calm himself. His voice remained level, though there was a faint edge now. "This isn't the time or place for this discussion. We'll talk more when I get home. In the meantime, try to keep a civil tongue in your head."
With that, Mr. Morton turned to Mrs. Morton, the expression on his face softening slightly. "I need to get to the office. We'll handle this later."
Mrs. Morton nodded, still holding onto her anger, but with the briefest flicker of something gentler at the edges of her mouth. "Of course. Have a good day at work."
Mr. Morton glanced back at Lucas before heading for the door. "Remember what I said, Lucas. We'll talk tonight."
The door clicked shut behind him, and for a moment, Lucas felt like he could breathe again. But it wasn't relief. It was emptiness, the kind that weighed heavily on his chest, a silent void that no one seemed to notice but him.
Mrs. Morton didn't say anything for a moment, just standing there, the words from earlier still hanging in the air. Then, with a deep breath, she turned to him, her voice hardening once more. "We expect better from you, Lucas. Shape up, or there will be consequences."
Lucas swallowed the retort that rose in his throat. He didn't want to fight anymore. At least not with her, not now. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the table, nodding slightly, though it meant nothing.
Mrs. Morton's tone softened a fraction as she turned toward Ms. Thomson. "Ms. Thomson, make sure he gets to his appointments today," she said briskly before exiting the room, leaving behind a faint trace of her disapproval.
Ms. Thomson lingered for a moment, her eyes full of concern. She stepped closer to Lucas, her voice gentle, almost like she was tiptoeing around something delicate. "Are you alright, Lucas?"
Lucas felt a sudden surge of emotion, but he tamped it down, unwilling to show it. He turned his face just enough so that the sadness, the anger, and the loneliness wouldn't be seen. "I'll be fine." The words felt hollow even to him, but he forced them out anyway.
She gave him a sympathetic smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "I just want what's best for you, Lucas. Try to stay out of trouble today, alright?"
Lucas met her gaze for just a moment before offering a half-hearted smile, one that barely touched the corners of his lips. "I'll try." It was a lie, but it was the only thing he could give her.
As Ms. Thomson returned to tidying up the kitchen, Lucas sat there, frozen in place. His eyes were distant as they traced the pattern of the table in front of him. He couldn't stop the thoughts that gnawed at him, the deep, persistent pull to be alone. To cut everyone off before they got too close. He couldn't bear the idea of seeing another person grieve over him, another person left with unanswered questions. It was better this way. It had to be.
The echo of Mrs. Morton's parting words lingered in his ears as he stared at the door, the weight of her disapproval pressing down on him.
Lucas finished his food and thanked Ms. Thomson, giving her a small, appreciative nod before heading out. The weight of the morning's tensions clung to him like a second skin, leaving him with the urge to break free from the walls of the mansion. He needed to find some space to breathe, somewhere to be alone with his thoughts. With a quick glance at the quiet, sterile halls of the mansion, he slipped outside.
The estate was nestled deep in one of the wealthiest corners of the town, the kind of place where the air felt heavier with exclusivity than the rustling of leaves in the wind. Large, ornate houses sat in their own patches of land, their private grounds bordered by high gates and well-maintained hedges. But it was the dense forest beyond the mansion's estate that always caught Lucas's eye.
The forest wasn't like the manicured gardens or perfectly pruned pathways around the house. This was something raw—untamed. A thick veil of trees loomed beyond the well-kept lawns, their trunks stretching upward like ancient sentinels. The air grew cooler and fresher the closer Lucas got to the woods.The forest was isolated—sprawling for miles with only a handful of houses in the distance, their presence barely visible behind thick clusters of trees.
Lucas, in his quiet moments, found himself pulled to it. He'd often sneak off to the back when things felt too suffocating inside the mansion. It was as though the forest, with its hidden, shadowy depths, understood him in a way others could not.
The forest around Crestwood was vast, stretching for miles in every direction, a seemingly endless expanse of dark green trees, tangled underbrush, and the constant hum of wildlife. Lucas had ventured deeper into the woods than he had before, drawn by an inexplicable pull that sent him farther than his usual haunts. It wasn't just the isolation that attracted him, but the reminder of the untamed nature that lived there, far from human interference. The forest was home to predators, some of which Lucas had encountered before—stealthy, feral things that skulked in the underbrush, their eyes gleaming with hunger. He'd once come across the remnants of a wolf, mangled and torn, its body barely recognizable from a distant attack. These were the things that moved in the darkest parts of the woods, and Lucas relished in knowing he wasn't the only hunter here.
After minutes of after remembering his past ,He had been smart enough to leave signs along the way to find his way back, and now, the further he moved, the closer he came.
It was when he finally found the wounded deer that the familiar tug of something he had long buried resurfaced within him.
The creature lay in a small clearing, its body twisted awkwardly, with its hindquarters propped against a tree. The deer was small, its fur matted and stained a deep, rich red. The wound on its flank was deep—gaping, jagged, as though a clawed predator had raked across its side. Its breath was shallow, coming in quick, gasping bursts. Wide, terrified eyes stared up at Lucas as if it could see its end in the stillness of the moment. The air hung heavy with the animal's fear, and Lucas couldn't help but feel a pang of something unsettling stir within him.
As he knelt beside the deer, his hand hovered over its bloodied flank. He could feel the heat radiating off its body, the frantic pulse of life trying desperately to hold on, but there was no hope. The wound was too deep. Lucas's mind wandered, tracing back to a memory buried deep within his childhood. He remembered finding wounded animals when he was younger, usually by accident.
There was one in particular, a bird with a broken wing, its fragile form trembling in his small hands as he examined it with unsettling curiosity. Its wing was broken, its tiny form battered and struggling to breathe. Lucas, undeterred, carefully pried open the small creature's chest with his tiny fingers, as if exploring a mystery. The tiny organs—delicate and soft—pushed out in sickening folds, like some gruesome puzzle being pieced together in the boy's mind. The bird's insides spilled out into his palm, slick with blood, as he pulled and prodded with unnatural precision for someone so young.
After a while once satisfied he had brought it to his mother, proudly showing her his find—expecting admiration, perhaps. Instead, the sight of the injured creature had terrified her, and her reaction was swift and sharp. She slapped him, her palm stinging his cheek, as if the very presence of the bird was something to be ashamed of.
After that, Lucas stopped showing his parents his "treasures." Instead, he began experimenting in secret. The winged animals, the ones he found with broken limbs, became subjects for his twisted curiosity. He would break off their wings, snap their legs, just to see how they would react.
There was something about their helplessness, the way their eyes pleaded with him, that made his pulse quicken. But that had all stopped the day his father caught him with a small rabbit, its legs twisted at odd angles, one of its limbs severed with Lucas holding a small pocket knife. The punishment had been brutal—a broomstick across his back, harsh words in his thick Russian accent that only emerged when he was angry. Lucas hadn't developed the accent himself—he was too young when they moved to the States—but his father's words always sounded more dangerous when his anger pulled it out of him.
Lucas smirked at the thought, his fingers brushing against the warm, wet fur of the deer. His gaze never left its eyes, which were now wide with horror, as though it understood what was about to happen.
The deer's breath grew more labored, the ragged gasps rattling through its chest as it attempted to move, its legs trembling beneath its body. It pushed weakly against the earth, trying to stand, but it was no use. The injury was too severe. The animal's wide eyes locked onto Lucas, its pupils dilated with fear and pain. Lucas knelt down beside it, the bloodstained fur slick against his hand. His thumb stroked the soft skin near its ear as he shushed it, the words gentle, a startling contrast to the brutality of the situation.
"Shh... it's okay," he murmured, his voice soft and almost tender, as if speaking to a wounded child. The deer stilled for a moment, as though the calmness in his tone reached past the fear and pain. Its breathing slowed, and for a brief second, it seemed to trust him. There was something in its eyes that seemed to ask for release, as though it knew its life was coming to an end.
Lucas smiled, an expression of something far gentler than anyone would expect from him. For the first time in a long while, he felt something other than cold amusement or calculated desire. It was a fleeting warmth, a genuine softness as he gazed at the creature. This would be the mercy it needed, he thought. No more suffering.
His hand reached out, fingers brushing against the jagged rocks nearby, and he selected one—sharp, hard, and heavy in his palm. But as his fingers wrapped around it, the voices began.
"Do it."
It was a whisper at first, soft like the breeze through the trees. But the more he hesitated, the louder it grew.
"Don't let it suffer. You're doing it a favor."
Lucas gritted his teeth, his fingers tightening around the rock as he knelt closer to the deer. He looked into its wide, terrified eyes, and a flicker of doubt crossed his mind.
"Just one quick strike, and it'll be over. You know it's what you want."
His grip on the rock tightened as he exhaled, steadying his breath. The words filled his head like a flood, louder now, overlapping one another.
"It won't even feel it, Lucas. It'll be so quick, so clean."
"Yes," Lucas muttered under his breath, his voice low and dark, though no one was around to hear. "It won't feel anything."
The deer seemed to look at him, its eyes glassy with fear. But Lucas didn't falter. He raised the rock, his movements quick and precise, and with a single, swift motion, he brought it down onto the deer's skull. The animal's body jerked with the force of the blow, its mouth gasping in a final, desperate breath.
"Good boy."
The voice was smoother now, satisfied, almost cooing in his ear. It was his father's voice—low and gruff, echoing from his childhood memories. "You've always known how to end things, haven't you?"
Lucas froze, his chest tightening as the voice mingled with the others. They were everywhere now—familiar, haunting. "Keep going."
He didn't want to, but the pressure built up, the voices growing louder, urging him on. His hand trembled as the rock slipped from his fingers, only to be replaced by a stronger, sharper compulsion. He picked it up again, his eyes locked on the deer's still form.
"You can't stop now, Lucas. You have to finish it."
The sound of the voice—the same one that had whispered to him when he was younger, when he'd broken off the wings of that bird, when he'd tortured the small animals—pushed him forward. The animal was already dead, but it wasn't enough. The blood, the twisted mess of what he'd done—he needed more. He needed to see the destruction.
With a steady, relentless rhythm, Lucas raised the rock again and brought it down. Again. And again. And again.
"That's it, Lucas. Don't hold back. It deserves this. You deserve this."
The words flooded him, pushing him past any remnant of hesitation. The deer's head caved beneath the force of each blow, its skull collapsing with sickening cracks. But Lucas didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Not while they were whispering in his ear.
"It's not real until you break it completely. Don't stop now. Finish it."
The rock continued its brutal rhythm, each swing a blur of violence, until there was nothing left but a bloody mess—a ruin of bone and flesh that could barely be called a head anymore.
"There. It's perfect now. Just like you."
The voices were calm now, almost satisfied. They weren't angry anymore, just pleased. They had always been there, in the back of his mind, but today they were louder, stronger. The forest, the deer—it all seemed to vanish in the echo of their approval.
Lucas stood back, breathing heavily. His hands were slick with blood, but the rush had dulled, leaving him with a deep, hollow feeling. The deer was unrecognizable now, a broken thing, just like him.
He wiped his hands on the ground, his mind still buzzing with the echo of the voices.
"You always were the one to finish things," his father's voice murmured again, softer this time. "It's good you know how to do it."
Lucas didn't reply. Instead, he stood in silence, looking down at the mutilated remains. He didn't know if it was the animal's blood or the voices that filled him, but something about the act felt... right. He had done this before, long ago, as a child.
But that had stopped. He'd learned not to show them his "gifts." Instead, he'd kept them to himself, hidden behind a mask of obedience. It had been easier to break things than to share them. Easier to hurt than to heal. And when his father had caught him torturing a small animal and disciplined him with the broom, he'd stopped. But only for a while.
Lucas stood frozen, his blood-soaked hands trembling as he gazed at the mangled remains of the deer. His breaths came in shallow gasps, his heart pounding in his chest. For a moment, the eerie stillness of the forest seemed to echo with a faint, distant sound—a murmured laughter, almost unhinged.
It was his laughter.
His lips parted, the sound a low, rasping chuckle that seemed to bubble up from some deep, dark place inside him. His eyes glinted, wide and manic, as he clutched his head, fingers digging into his scalp. He laughed louder now, the sound spiraling into something almost deranged, his body shaking with the intensity of it. The voices in his mind roared in the background, feeding the chaos, their murmurs twisting into a cacophony of approval.
Lucas laughed harder, swaying where he stood, lost in the madness of it. His head spun, his chest heaving with each laugh as if he couldn't control the madness that swirled inside him. The voices danced around him, whispers turning into sharp commands, urging him to dive deeper, to embrace the chaos. His laughter rang out again, jagged and cruel, bouncing off the trees and surrounding the forest.
But then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.
Lucas stood still, his hands falling limply to his sides. His chest rose and fell slowly, his breath now steady. His expression shifted—no longer manic or wild, but cold, controlled. The madness ebbed away as quickly as it had come, leaving only a hollow calm. His smile faded into a neutral line as he stood over the ruined corpse of the deer, his gaze blank and distant.
He looked down at the remains for a long moment, his lips twitching with a strange, quiet satisfaction. "Bye bye," he murmured softly, almost tenderly, to the bloodied carcass. The words felt disconnected from the violence he had just inflicted, as though he were saying goodbye to something distant, something other than the twisted mess at his feet.
He turned away then, not bothering to look back as he began the long walk back to the mansion. The forest seemed to close in around him, the sounds of nature muffled by the quiet hum of his thoughts. His hands, stained with the blood of the deer, twitched at his sides as if seeking something—something to cleanse the memory of what had just occurred.
By the time he reached the mansion, the blood on his clothes was smeared and uneven, a stark contrast against the pale fabric. The door creaked open as he stepped inside, his boots heavy against the floor. He moved quickly to the first available bathroom, his reflection in the mirror a faint blur as he tried to wipe the blood from his clothes, but the stain wouldn't come out. He scrubbed harder, faster, frustration building in his chest as the fabric clung to him with the scent of death.
His fingers trembled as he wiped his face with a damp cloth, the sensation of the blood, now drying on his skin, making him feel like he couldn't scrub deep enough. It wasn't just the blood. It was the feeling of it, the residue of what he'd done, clinging to him like a second skin. He couldn't get rid of it.
But he didn't stop scrubbing. He couldn't stop. The laughter that had bubbled up in the forest seemed to echo in his ears once more, but he stifled it, forcing it down, just as he always did.
"Not yet," he whispered to his reflection, his voice low, almost pleading. "Not yet."
But the truth was clear: the blood, the violence—it was inside him now. It would never leave.