CRIMSON PAINTED OVER THE IVOERY WHITE SKIN OF TROYE'S FINGERS, slipping behind the shield of his licorice coat to hide the guilt away from prying eyes is all Hector can think of. He lies awake, the bedsheet a crumbled mess beneath him-much like his mental state-raw unblinking eyes staring at the ceiling with only one thought in his mind.
Murad's dead.
And Troye killed him.
Every time Hector closes his eyes he sees the same image, stuck in his head like a broken vhs tape, tattooed behind his lids to remind him every second of Murad's body dumped beside the lake. His arm twisted in a way that his elbow's bone poked out from his muddied blood-soaked skin. His one eye stared into nothingness while the other seemed like it had been blinded, and his clothes unrecognizable and painted in a dark red, which almost seemed black, that perhaps oozed out of the wound carved in his chest.
Needless to say, he didn't bat his eyes the entire night. Not after the police escorted him home after he puked thrice and nearly passed away, not after he'd sat under the shower with his clothes on because he couldn't find the strength to stand up against the sink, not when he lied awake without moving a muscle, not even when he heard Troye coming home, his light footsteps echoing in the hallway.
Hector had imagined how this would've gone. A part of him knew this would've happened but a bigger part of him pushed the thought away and sulked into the warm arms of denial. It was sweet while it lasted.
He thought after he learned Murad's dead, he would've marched up to his brother and throw a few punches before yelling at his face that why did he do it while his look-a-like would simply break into a morbid grin, blood dripping from his nose and soaking his teeth. But oh, had he underestimated it.
He is fucking miserable. He can't move. He can't breathe. No. He doesn't want to breathe because how is it fair that his lungs hold air while Murads' has been brutally punctured by the boy who's sleeping soundly just across the hall from him.
He can imagine the whole thing in his head even though he wasn't there. He knows he was scared. Hell he can even hear him begging for his life, crying when the pain struck in and screaming for help when he knew he wasn't being let out of this and stopping when he knew help wasn't coming.
With every cold unwilling breath leaving his chapped lips he feels the life being slowly sucked out of him. Painful enough to make his lungs burn but not enough to leave him dead.
And oh did he wish he were dead right now.
What right does he have to live? When Murad's isn't because of him. If only had he done something instead of miserably drowning straight alcohol down his throat maybe Murad wouldn't have been gruesomely killed, maybe he wouldn't have had to rot against the shore of the lake, his carved, splat and butchered body wouldn't have been poked and splat further to find traces left of the killer.
The Killer he thinks. The killer lives under the roof as him and yet again he's doing nothing of help but losing himself further into miserable spiraling dead ended thoughts.
Hector gathers whatever strength he has in his sore limbs and sits straight. He gets up but stumbles a little, his vision going dark. He doesn't remember sleeping the last few days. Or eating. But he doesn't bother to.
***
AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER HECTOR marches with a mission down the empty hallway of the St. Dartons, his long heavy strides radiating the fury he feels scalding beneath the layers of his skin.
He turns a corner and stops before a white door. He turns the handle.
Every head turns to look at the intruder disrupting the lecture. "I need a moment with Troye Vincent." He announces.
