My mother inhaled.
The Devil exhaled.
I slammed my fists against the iron bars of my cage, shouting for it all to end.
And it did.
The Devil brought the sharp end of the crucifix down on the top of my mother's head, her body crumbling to the floor. She was still, too still, blood spilling from her head like water tipping over a waterfall. It reddened the floor beneath her, a stark contrast to her pale flesh.
The crucifix fell to the floor in slow motion, my hands fluttering wildly at my sides.
I murdered my mother.
She was dead. Dead. I killed her.
Swallowing back the bile that rose in my throat, I turned toward Auden, only for my reflection to confront me inside the mirror that had started it all. Where had it come from? Why was it here? Who was I staring at?
The reflection was eight years old—brown curls shorter than they were now, hazel eyes wider, blood seeping from the clawed wound on his cheek. His hands, trembling like mine, were stained red, a pale corpse bleeding out behind him.
My mother’s corpse.
Do you see?
“No,” I whispered.
Yes, you do. But you refuse.
“It’s not real.”
You murdered your mother.
“It’s not real.”
You murdered her eleven years ago.
“It’s not real.”
You murdered her that night in North Lane.
“No, I saw her tonight.”
You went right through her.
“A hallucination.”
A ghost.
“I had to save Auden.”
And you did.
“It’s not real.”
Your father told you she left. But he saw the body. He buried it.
“It’s not real.”
You’ve known the truth this whole time.
