After the saying, Mrs. Smith rubbed Hilda's blood on our forehead. I quickly brushed through, making sure Mrs. Smith wouldn't notice, and she didn't. I don't want to get her blood at the last spot she kissed me in... I look at the other kids, not even one of them are crying... they still don't realize how fucked up this is.
I look at the known crybaby Victor, he isn't crying this time... he is 17, soon enough he'll also be 18 and he knows it soon enough will be his turn and now... he gets Hilda's room. It's the tradition.
I come up to Victor and briefly hugging him, I want to assure him... that... it will be okay. But we both know it won't, it just won't. But... I kept thinking that night... what did Hild... mean... by... The lost?
YOU ARE READING
The lost
Short StoryThis is a story about a girl named Asha. Her parents died at the age of 10, she was sent to the orphanage... But this orphanage had something strange. A tradition. "What kind of tradition", You'll soon find out... (TW: This story has brief mentions...
