Six Feet Under

Chapter 1

"So, Mr. Miller," the detective said, rubbing his temple. "If I understand correctly, you're here to report a murder."

No answer came out of my mouth as I tried to steady my breathing and keep the rhythm of my heartbeats in check. And with all my might, I tried to choke the inner voice that kept urging me to run—as far as one could go.

But where would I run to?

Deep down, I knew that every attempt to escape was to no avail. My fate had been sealed, and his claws would hunt me down wherever I went. So there was no point in even trying.

Taking a deep breath, I looked up, and my eyes met with the detective's cold gaze.

"No." I clenched my hands together to stop them from trembling before I continued. "I'm here to confess to murder..."

***

Throughout my thirty years on earth, I was never able to understand the mechanism of how the human brain worked—especially the part that was concerned with memories.

I always thought memories were like the shelves of a library containing countless books. Wherein the lower shelves, our beautiful memories were stored, the ones we could never help but read over and over again to relive the moments that made our lives worth something.

But unfortunately, time has a terrible habit of ruining all the finer things in life. So one day, we put our hands on one of those books only to be appalled to find that some of the papers had been torn apart, and we could no longer remember what they were about. While other pages have started to fade away, and eventually, they too end up completely forgotten—as if they never existed.

On the other hand, some books had been placed deliberately on the upper shelves so they could be out of our reach, hoping that the dust of time would turn them into a pile of debris, along with all the pain and agony they carried within their pages. But no matter what we do, they never disappear.

And from time to time, we find one of those books falling on our heads, reopening wounds we were so naïve to think that time could turn into mere scars—a tiny reminder of what we have been through. As if we were soldiers who got injured in a battle, and their scars become lifetime proof that they had survived.

But the sad truth was that whenever one of those books gets reopened, we always find that the wounds are still open, the blood of the past gushing out of them with no hope of ever stopping.

And now—ten years after the hell we went through—a very deep wound has been ripped open. And my gut told me that it would lead us to our graves, burying us six feet under...

***

The three of us have to go to our high school reunion. I can't believe it's been 10 years already!

It was a message from Connor. I wondered how he still could be so excited after everything that happened in that town. But he has always been the most boisterous and mischievous one of the three of us.

He used to voice his opinions on everything and anything, even if he understood nothing about what he was talking about. And he was the debate team leader during our school days, so I wasn't surprised when he decided to study law; no other profession would have suited him better.

You must be kidding. I don't want to step foot in that place again.

Aiden replied to him. He has always been the voice of reason among us. He was good... pure.

Unfortunately, though, Connor and I succeeded in tainting his soul forever, but he refused to surrender to the darkness that had ever since devoured our souls. He fought it with all his strength. He studied psychology and decided to work as a social worker in a juvenile prison. He wanted to help the delinquent adolescents who were mentally unstable—all to probably atone for what had happened.