The Ring

I remember that night well, the first time I killed someone. The night was freezing, pavements slippery and the ice black. I shivered and wrapped my handmade crocheted scarf tighter around my neck. I had persuaded mother to let me go out, I left the details vague, the details are always how you're caught lying. It wouldn't matter how much detail I gave. Neither mother nor father cared, unless their reputation was at stake.
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Delilah Weatherby recalls the night she first killed someone, and how the bloodlust was addicting.