Page 75 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
Each step brings another emotion. A cry escapes my choked throat, a feeling of remorse. A deep devastation.
But I can’t find anything.
The ground begins to shake. Heavy footsteps approach. Could there be an army out here? Nothing else would rock the world with such strength.
My limbs hang heavy, longing to fall to the floor as exhaustion overwhelms me. Then, a monster races by. A towering beast, limping.
Exhausted.
Its bright eyes meet mine, gray fur glinting in the sun, as it passes by me.
The pain in my torso makes sense as I set my gaze on the monster’s blood soaked claws.
It attacked someone.
If I could, I would run to them. They’re likely bleeding out—dying. But between that and the monster’s ache, it takes all I have left to stay on my feet.
I stumble through the woods. My body twitches. My head swims with sensation, none of it my own. I fall against a tree, harsh bark biting into me. My fingers tighten around the wood, splintering my skin. The pain is nothing, now. There’s too much in its way. I pull myself up.
And I fall again.
I cry, not understanding why.
Force myself to my feet.
Hardly can stand.
Walk, then fall, and walk again.
Until, at last, I spot Lucian.
My legs give out, dropping me before the scene of the crime.
He is the pit in my stomach, the knife in my chest.
I’ve never felt more distraught in someone else’s life.
He picks someone up, and I spot the blood—the girl’s stomach is slashed open. Ivory bone shines beneath her torn skin. Lucian tucks her closer to his chest.
It’s Lilac, his sister, his torment. I’m surprised her guts are not spilling out.
They’re barely being held in.
First, I cry. For everyone else.
Then, I lean over and puke, unaware if it’s on account of the gore or the emotion churning in my stomach.
It’s difficult to pull myself back up.
Lucian runs, leaving Aralia in his wake, kneeling over the puddle of blood. I try to leave, but Aralia turns.
“Please don’t leave me,” she says. “Don’t leave me alone.”
I freeze. Friendship has never been my forte.
I’ve known Aralia for years. She’s my suitemate. I’ve scarcely talked to her.
I clutch onto the scraps I know.
