For a long time Kris sits, silent, in their room.
They’d broken free, with a friend’s help, but at what cost? The blood still staining their clothes and skin could attest to every sin they’d committed over the span of the night, and as sick as the sight made them, they couldn’t bring themself to move. Disgust was but one small part of the price they owed.
Despite their body being the very vessel to carry out each and every horrendous act, Kris’s recollection of the events leading up to their possession was a blur. They’d taken a back seat in their own body, watched with all too vivid detail as they betrayed friends, loved ones, and destroyed with their own hands virtually every shred of trust so carefully formed.
Sickness roiled in their stomach and hot tears pricked at their eyes but they bit it all back, shoved it far, far down because they hardly deserved a single second of self pity.
The human was at a loss. They’d killed their mother--or some poor version of her--and had put their best friend through so much misery, physical and otherwise. They’d... turned their knife on one who loved them, and had injured others they barely knew. How was Kris supposed to live with that?
“It wasn’t you,” that too-understanding voice echoed in their mind--the voice of someone maimed by them only moments beforehand. But no... Kris knew better. They’d... they’d let the beast in, had let it take hold. They had let their guard down and now this--
That’s what it was, this feeling. It was brand new and frightfully raw and incredibly powerful, such that it felt like it might just destroy them with the way it shook their very core. Kris clutched at their chest, the ache from within mirroring the deep scar stretched along their sternum.
Where did they go from here?
