I hadn’t aimed for better, brighter things. I’d given up. Let the assholes win. The idea lodged in my head, that was so not okay. No matter what, I should’ve kept fighting. I should never have gone to an emotional place where I felt like the bridge offered my best hope.
Never again, I promised myself.
Teenagers. Everything is so apocalyptic.
The worst part of holding the memories is not the pain. It’s the loneliness of it. Memories need to be shared.
I remember the Hunt from ten years ago. How for months afterward I didn’t dare fall asleep because of the nightmares that would invade my mind: hideous images of an imagines Hunt, wet and violent and full of blood. Horrific cries of fear and panic, the sound of flesh ripped and bones crushed puncturing the night stillness.