Damien
She didn’t fight me, not really.
She stumbled once when I pulled her from the room, but her legs kept moving. She didn’t scream or twist away. She let herself be dragged like she was too tired to resist, but I could feel the tension rippling through her arm, her whole body strung tight with nerves and fury.
She was unraveling. I’d seen it building over the past days, the flickers of defiance, the silence that grew longer, heavier. And now here it was, raw and unfiltered, spilling from her like she wanted to wound. It was the part about the woods that stayed with me.
Not the accusations. Not the names. Not even the venom in her voice when she called me a murderer. It was that single line—I should have let myself die in the woods.
She had meant it.
And I didn’t know why it made
