7.Grieving
There is blood on your hands, dripping red upon the deep pile of the rug. You are unheeding to the strain slowly spreading down your robes.
I was made to watch.
Your hands, your face. But it is not you. I keep reminding myself of that, although it gets harder by the day, as each horror is piled on the last until they become one endless nightmare.
I hope you are sleeping, and I pray that your dreams are filled with laughter and thoughts of home, rather than screams.
And I pray with all my heart you are not screaming with them