Eleven
Aelissm couldn’t imagine what Pat would feel like come morning. What had happened between her and Brent seemed like a playful disagreement compared to what Pat had endured. Brent had died that night, but somehow even that now seemed detached as though it had happened to someone else and she hadn’t been struggling to free herself just hours before he had succumbed to death. Pat had been stabbed. He couldn’t escape that memory like she could hers. She hadn’t actually seen Brent die, and she hadn’t been the one to find his body. The dark wanderings of her mind could be dismissed—though not easily—as being unproven scenarios. The thought of Pat having to relive that moment when the knife had pierced him, unable to hide behind the excuse of “well, maybe it didn’t happen that way” made h
