Chapter 1
Guilt, he decided, It must be guilt.
He'd been struggling with the gnawing sensation in his stomach, the ache in his chest. The nausea that threatened to his knees to the cold, stone floor of his cell.
Hans had been stuck here waiting for the past week. And when his bitterness had worn out his mind had become as blank as the grey walls of his prison.
Thoughts rushed to fill it. They were not pleasant thoughts.
Oh Hans... He was 9, on the floor, shivering and bruised. Are you hurt, little brother? A wicked gleam shone in Harold's eyes.
Hans clenched his teeth, forming his tiny hands into useless little balls. A dangerous thing clutched at his core and he knew it to be hate. He welcomed it.
Are you crying? His mouth held a smirk. In the back of his mind Hans realized where he had gotten his own from.
Like a little girl! laughed Henry. Another one, younger than the other. Harold's shadow.
He came back to himself long enough to realize that the sticky fluid beneath his hands was his own blood. He had fallen prostrate on the floor, had bitten his lips so hard that his redness still made a dull tap like pebbles upon water.
He took a shaky breath and fell back against a wall.
What have I done?