For now, this is a stand alone drabble, but it could be added onto later. We'll see.
Disclaimer: Divergent characters and places all belong to Veronica Roth. I have no part in her genius creation.
Four is lying face down in a pool of blood.
Somehow, I know it is his blood and not mine.
I flex my fingers and feel something. The familiar curve of a gun is pressed in the palm of my hand, its weight heavy.
I know automatically that I pulled the trigger.
His death is my fault.
I search the depths of my mind for some reason of why—but my endeavor returns as clueless as it began.
I killed Four, and I can't imagine why.
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