unbridled [completed]

thirty: w h o .

i can feel the slow, hot tears trail down my cheekbones. i read the obituary over and over and over again. adjusting my dress of lament, i call the cab to head towards st. joseph's church—the exact, same church that elizabeth rested six feet under.

how could sheila, my best friend of four years, be dead?

and most importantly, w h o had killed both the cold carcasses that now, laid six feet under?

angus. charlemange. or herself?