An ugly, itchy knitted sweater presses against my face as I lay in the closet, silk and soft satin surrounding me, with the occasional unwanted gift thrown into the mix. The boy and girl stand outside, and I am careful not to make a sound as the girl stands reluctantly, as if to leave.
"I'm a murderer." She murmurs, her gentle voice edged with the sound of metal on metal, bitter pain shooting through the air like bullets.
"No, no, you're-you-it wasn't-"
"It was. Don't brush it off like every other damn thing! From-"
"It wasn't your fault!"
"I shot her twelve times in the back of the head. Five in her leg, and ten to back, and three shots that missed. I used all thirty rounds. Just because-"
The boy grabbed her hand, fingers wrapping around it, and then pulled her into an embrace, a tear slipping like a rouge diamond across his cheek. I clutched the itchy sweater closer to myself, trying to black out, erase, simply ignore what was happening as the girl leaned into the hug, only to raise her hand, the knife trembling in her clammy, unwilling fingers.
