The pounding of my head told me what had happened. It was exacerbated by the sounds of many people doing their best to keep the tears from flowing, tears of fear, tears of grief, tears of anger. Some were crying, although that seemed to be the children who’d found themselves in the same position as me unable to hide the way they were feeling, and I can’t help thinking it was hearing them, hearing their pain, that made me do something I wouldn’t have done otherwise. Or maybe I would. Honestly, I’m not sure exactly why I made the decision, when I always promised myself I wouldn’t pass on the curse of being a blood drinker, but I knew it was the only way for me to protect myself from becoming a slave to someone who couldn’t possibly understand what I was.
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Mirrored from K. A. Webb Writing.