"Is it true? Tell me what happened," you ask him, trying to restrain the accusatory tone in your voice to little success.
"You're just like the rest of them," he says, beginning to turn around. "You'd never believe me. Never. Never. Never."
His eyes are no longer eyes, but pools of black fog that are fixed on you as he advances.
Though you make to run away, you aren't quite fast enough. He lunges forward and pushes you to the ground. Where his hands touch, you burn with cold.
"You want to know what happened?" he asks. "I suffocated him with a pillow. Like this."
The visceral memory of having snuffed out a sickly dear friend's life by brute force pierces your mind and courses through your body. The agony of it is too sharp, and you cry out in pain.
He is gone when you regain your senses. It takes a moment before you can pull yourself up from the ground. You look at your hands. You know it isn't true, but they feel like the hands that pushed the pillow into Robert's face as he slept.
You can't stay here.
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