Today, I killed a man. A normal man.
My hands didn't lift a gun. My fingers didn't wrap around a knife. All I did was wait, and the eaters did the rest.
The man we thought was a hunter is dead. All that remains of his life is a pool of blood outside our door and the echoes of his screams in our heads.
John is luckier than I. His makeshift earplugs kept most of the cries away from him. But it has been burned into my brain, the terrified screams that ran into gurgles and finally silenced altogether, and the squelch of flesh and crack of bones as the eaters tore into him.
By the time we knew he was normal, it was too late to help him.
At least, telling myself that is the only way I will ever be able to sleep again without his screams bouncing around inside my head.
The thought that he knew something about my family, or had spoken to my mother, will never, ever go away.
