You stood there, holding the knife in your hand and looking down at the pool of blood you stood in. Not only was the maroon colored liquid on the ground; it was also splattered on your face, your clothes- everywhere. Nearby was the body of your victim, mauled and twisted up like an abused rag doll that was played with by a small child. The moon shone above, illuminating the sharp object in your hand, glistening silver. If anyone had walked up right now, they would either run or call the police, or both. You choked back tears as the guilt set in. Dropping the knife, you fell to your knees, covering your face in your hands- though you didn't cry. You stayed quiet, not wanting to look at the corpse near you. You wanted to forget all this had happened.

Looking over one last time before you got up and ran, you saw your friend laying there, still as a statue. You told them your anger would get the best of you one day, but did they listen? No, they didn't. And they paid the price.

If Darry found out about this, you were dead yourself.