Sometimes I really hate myself. I really do.
Ib awoke lying on one of the pews, her mother, worry creasing her face, standing over her.
"Ib, Ib, are you okay? Do I need to take you to the hospital?"
"Mhmmmm?" Was all the groggy girl could get out.
What had just happened?
"Ib, what happened!?" Mary cried as she rushed over.
Her blue eyes were wild with concern and her hair was frazzled slightly, like she had been running her hands through it.
"Murderer," Ib murmured, so soft that neither Mary nor Mother could be sure of what she had uttered.
"What was that, honey?"
"Murderer," Ib said again, this time more firmly.
Her intense gaze pinned Mary to the spot.
"W-What?" Mary questioned, sounding weak.
"You killed him!" Ib cried, springing from the pew, tears in her eyes.
"I hate you!" she claimed in between sobs.
Mary could only stay silent for a moment.
"He deserved it!"
And with that, Ib ran from the room.
