Death. Death. Death.
All I ever see is death.
From Grim Reapers roaming around in broad daylight, collecting souls, to the vivid dreams at night—always ending with someone strapped to a dartboard, a knife flying straight for them.
There’s no escape from it.
It’s everywhere.
It follows me, claws at me, reminds me of everything I’ve lost. Every second of every damn day.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, breath caught in my throat, and I can’t even remember whose face I saw on the board this time.
Was it Sabine’s?
Or was it his?
They died the same way.
But only one of them died by my hand.
Thing is, it doesn’t feel that way.
It feels like I killed my sister, too.
And somehow, it also feels like I didn’t kill him at all.
It feels like I became him instead.
It’s in how I look at people now. Like they’re all just targets.
I can’t help it—I see the threat behind every smile, every mask.
I wonder, constantly, what they’re hiding.
What sins they’ve buried beneath all that polish.
And how they’ll die.
What happensafter.
What exactly happened to Sabine.
That’s why I can’t meet my mother’s eyes anymore.
She wouldn’t see her son.
She’d see something else.
Something half-dead. Half-aware.
My right eye hasn’t blinked properly since I nearly died. It doesn’t feel normal anymore.
It sees things my left eye can’t.
Things that move behind the veil.
Things no human should ever see.
