“Is he dead?”
Beckett leans down, touching his neck. Feeling for a pulse. Then stands, wipes her hands on the sides of her pants and nods solemnly once. “He’s dead.”
“Good.” I let out a raspy breath. “Good. That’s over with.”
“Whatever did he do to you anyway?” She asks, eyes wide as she looks down at him. “To make you want to kill him.”
Crouching down, I gently pressed his eyelids down. Now he looked like he was sleeping....

They whispered they needed help. We looked in the opposite direction. They cried for rescue. We shrugged over our shoulders. They were screaming for our hand. For one lifesaver. And we shook our heads.
The trigger was pulled, and suddenly, our heads were turned. Now we wanted to help.
All that was left was our memories, and they were starting to blur. Maybe if we would have reached out. Maybe if we would have just talked to them. If only they...