What had he done? How far had he gone this time? He knew he would always wake with rabbit fur stuck to his shirt or a few drops of blood here and there but what were these images? Had he truly murdered a small girl? He wanted to scream the words, 'No, it wasn't me! I wasn't myself!'
But he knew those would go in vain. Even without fully remembering the events, he could tell with utmost accuracy, that he had done something bad. His hands started shaking as teardrops fell on the leaves.
"Hey." A soft, kind voice of a man floated through the air. The voice instantly offered him some calm, even though he didn't know how.
Denzel turned to look at the source of the voice and found a young man standing a few feet away. He couldn't have been more than twenty. His eyes looked somber as if he knew what Denzel was crying about. But there wasn't a trace of malice on his face.
