"'Mum, she needs me. She can't stay alone,' I said, concern consuming my face.
"That's why she'll be staying with me." our foster mother scolded, her voice firm.
"I'm your mother, and I'm responsible for both of you."She helped Mira up and led her to her own room, separating us.
Weeks passed, and I hadn't seen Mira since. Whenever I asked our foster mother about her, she'd reassure me that Mira was fine. But I knew Mira too well. If she was truly okay, she'd have come to me by now. My concern grew, and I decided to investigate.
One early morning, a loud scream pierced the air. It sounded like Mira's voice. I rushed to our foster mother's door, which was slightly ajar. I peeked inside and was met with a horrific sight: our foster parents, naked, with Mira struggling between them. My mind reeled, and I stood frozen in shock. Mira screamed again, and our foster parents exchanged glances before quickly dressing.
Mira stood up weakly, staggering as she did. She was a shadow of her former self, with sunken eyes and heavy breathing. The couple had pushed her hard against the bed, smothering her screams with a pillow. She struggled to break free. I covered my mouth, tears streaming down my face. I regretted coming to this house. The horror was just too much to bear. I burst into the room, and the couple's shocked faces turned toward me. They slowly removed the pillow from Mira's face, and she went limp.
I ran to her and lifted her into my arms. She gave me one last, pitiful look, trying to say something I couldn't quite make out before she breathed her last. I shivered, shaking her cold body, tears streaming down my face uncontrollably.
"Mira! Mira!" I screamed, my voice hoarse with grief.
"Please!" I pleaded."Let's go back, I promised you'd be fine." My words were laced with desperation and tears. I felt like I was losing my mind. I held her hands, calling out to her again. Eric came in at this time.
"Mira, are you cold?" Eric stood frozen, his eyes visible behind his face mask. What felt like an eternity passed, but it couldn't have been more than ten minutes before some people in scrubs came in with a body bag and took her away.
I vaguely recall being injected, and when I came to, I was in a storage room, tied up. The air was thick with dust, and old shelves loomed above me. I screamed until my voice was hoarse, but no one responded. Exhausted and weak, I fell silent. Days might have passed – I lost track of time because the storage room had high small windows. I wouldn't be able to know whether we were in the day or night.
Purple marks circled my wrists and ankles, a stark contrast to the numbness that had settled in my chest. My throat was parched, my stomach growling, but my mind was consumed by one question: What was going on between our foster parents and Mira?
I was still turning it over in my head when the door sighed open. My foster mum stepped in, eyes full of pity.
"I begged your father to let you go. He won't listen — you can't leave, not while people are watching," she said.
A slow, hot rage crawled up my spine.
"Who are the people watching?" I thought as anger flared through me. I curled my lip and stared at her, I sneered at her, every muscle coiled. I could have killed her where she stood. I swore then to avenge my friend.
"Alright," she breathed. "I'll release you. I've missed you." She let go and pressed a kiss to my forehead. Then, ravenous, she grabbed me at the waist and began to unfasten my shirt. I pushed her away; her head cracked against the wall. Blood fanned across the plaster like spilled ink.
I clapped a hand over my mouth, tasting copper. The room swam. I moved toward her on trembling legs, pressing a finger against her nostrils — nothing. Her pulse was gone; my own heartbeat slammed so loud against my chest, like someone knocking from inside my ribs.Her lifeless eyes fixed on me with a blankness that felt worse than any scream. The blood kept coming, slow and unstoppable, painting the floor in a dark, wet stream.
For a second I stood petrified, as if the world had narrowed to that stain. Then something cold and animal rose in me and I stumbled back and ran. My feet slapped the cold floorboards; I ran out into the compound barefoot, my clothes soaked with the iron scent of blood. The night air hit me like a shout. I ran up the stairs and collided with Eric; he froze and went white.Hs face folding into something like terror and recognition. He didn't cry out — only stared, lips parted, as if watching a ghost.
Was I a murderer? The thought slid over me like oil. My hands trembled; my nails dug crescents into my palms until hot lines of pain bloomed. I tasted the word "murder" and it wouldn't leave my mouth.
Inside my room the shadows seemed to lean in as I kept scattering everything .The house made small noises — a settling, a drip — that sounded suddenly accusatory. In the corner, her blood-dark stain seemed to be dripping more. A voice inside whispered that it was right, that she had wanted to do worse; another voice, higher and colder, hissed that excuses were thin paper over a hole. My breath came quick and ragged. I clawed at my arms until skin split and the pain anchored me to the present, but the ache only braided with dread.I sat on the floor and pressed my forehead to my knees, and for the first time I felt how close the dark could come. And that was my first prey!