Bile stung my throat, my hands reaching up to it.

I just killed someone.

His eyes would never see light again, he would never feel the sun or the moon on him again. And I was the reason for that.

I was the reason his family would mourn as I was. I was the reason he would never get to grow old, the reason he would never see another sunrise. I was the reason his parents would wear the blue I couldn't.

"Damn." Alaric whispered, taking a step toward me.

The knife flashed as I raised it. My knuckles turned white, arms trembling to keep it up.

"You won't kill me next, will you?" He raised his arms in mock surrender.

I didn't drop the knife, but I let out a shuddering breath and a tear fell.

"Fascinating." Alaric's whisper of awe made me realise just what I had done. Or, what I had become.

A monster.

And the one in front of me was fascinated by it.

He took a second step, and I thrust the knife forward. "DON'T." I screamed at him. Taking a step back, I ran a hand through my messed up hair, turning in a circle.

"Ophelia, I–"

He took one more step.

He moved closer to me, ignoring my commands to not. His neck still bled onto his skin, dribbling down it in small drops of ruby that sparkled dimly in the moonlight.

It looked too much like Hael's blood. Like my mother's skin, her eyes, her everything.

He took another step closer, and the knife I held flew through the space between us, grazing his cheek and clattering to the floor behind him.

Why would I throw the knife?

Blood bloomed across his cheek, stark against his pale skin. Another wound. Another person I'd almost killed. Another reminder of the person I did kill, another reminder of my mother.

My head spun. Or I spun. Maybe the world spun. All I knew was that I was spinning, and that I couldn't stop this unending spiral of emotions, thoughts, words, and death.

My breath hitched. I fell to the floor. My hands banged at my head.

"Stop it, stop it, stop it, STOP IT." I felt the reverberations through my entire body as I banged my hands against my skull. Again. Again. Again.

My mother was dead. And I hadn't stopped it. Maybe if I'd begged harder, or woken up faster, or gotten water from the kitchen and splashed it against her.

But I couldn't change the past.

Hael was dead. I had held a knife and stabbed his bloody heart. My fingers had gripped the hilt and pushed it through his flesh until his eyes turned glassy. There was no way I could've prevented Hael's death. But what I could've done was run. Run, instead of fighting.

The fight was useless. I fought because I wanted to, not because I had to.

Looking back, I saw so many openings where I could've run away and back to my room. I could still be wrapped in my mother's blanket, breathing in the scent of her favourite tea.

I screamed, curling into myself on the floor.

A hand tapped on my shoulder.

Alaric.

I didn't know what to do. What could I say after murdering someone?

So I did what I could do: I ran.

My feet clattered in a clumsy pattern as I ran away. The floors froze my toes, even through my slippers. My lungs worked and heaved as my legs flew over the marble floors.

My legs took me down the circular flight of stairs and into the kitchens.