8. The killer is...

It still comes as a shock to me how irreversible life is.

Tristan sat alone in a pitch-black room. He sat there in silence. After what seemed like an eternity - the door clicked, and Anne, his sister, finally returned home. As she flicked on the lights, she stepped back, startled.

However, she made no attempt at greeting him, heading straight for her room instead.

"Where were you?" Tristan's tone was sharp, harshly sharp.

Anne halted, on guard. "Why do you care?" 

Tristan stood up. As he approached her, a metallic stench hit his nostrils.

He gripped her shoulder, turning her to face him. "What did you do?" Suspicion etched across his face.

Anne didn't answer.

"What have you done?!" His voice wavered as he unzipped Anne's hoodie, revealing a shirt soaked in blood.

Tristan thought this was just a cruel joke that went too far. Unable to find the right words, he stared blankly at the crimson-stained fabric. It resembled blood this vividly, yet he couldn't wrap his head around one thing - Whose blood is that? Tristan gently scooped up her hand in his - it was cold. 

"What happened?" Tristan tried to appear calm, but his hand trembled. 

"Did you get in a fight? Did someone hurt you?" he asked, denying the obvious - if she did have a wound bleeding this severely, she wouldn't be standing here so effortlessly.

Silence. His gaze fell back to the absurdly big blood stain. No, the stain wasn't from soaking from the inside out - it looked like it splashed on her. Like she went rampage, madly stabbing someone over and over again. He shook his head, trying to stop his imagination from picturing such a scene.

"Your hands are cold," Tristan breathed out.

'It's just a cruel joke. Ha, how could my sister be a killer? There's no way-'

Tristan lifted his gaze; the horror reflecting in Anne's eyes extinguished any lingering doubts. She hastily zipped up her hoodie. 

"What happened?" 

"I'm all right," Anne murmured weakly.

"I did not ask if you are all right. What have you done?!" Tristan raised his voice.

Tristan took a deep breath, returning to his soft, brotherly voice. "Coming home so late at night and covered in blood at that? Just what have you done? This isn't like you at all, you never-" 

"I killed someone," Anne cut him off. She said it so clearly and steadily.

 Anne's hand slipped away from Tristan's weak grip.

However, Tristan didn't want to hear this. He wanted an excuse. He wanted a made-up story about someone attacking his sister in a dark alley and her having to defend herself with a knife. "What did you say?"

"I killed a person, Tristan," she sounded distant, emotionless.

"Who?"

"You don't want to know that," she looked away.

Tristan slapped her. He wasn't the type to act violently. He wasn't.

Anne covered the spot where his slap landed, bewildered.

A deathly silence enveloped the room. A neighbor's dog barked, a car alarm rang, and the clock ticked, marking each agonizing moment. Silence was a dreadful judge of Anne's heinous crime. 

"Millen," Anne finally broke the silence.

Tristan's eyes widened in shock.

"I killed Millen," Anne repeated. Tristan opened his mouth but shut it the next second. 

"Why?" escaped his lips when he managed to speak again.

"I don't know," Anne spat angrily. 

"Why? Why?" Tristan repeated, his eyes watering.

"I-I don't know! I really..." Anne's eyes widened, her hands locked in fists as her mind searched for a reason.

Tristan never thought bringing his sister somewhere he found happiness could result in something so messed up. 

No, this is how it should've been in the first place. Tristan never deserved them - he never deserved the happiness they brought to his days. He was bound to bring his misfortune with him, this curse.

"How could you kill her?! She treated you like her own child!" Tristan couldn't contain his anger.

Yanking the backpack off Anne's back, Tristan emptied its contents onto the floor - bloody gloves, a wig, a bloody knife, everything scattered on the floor.

"You're no better than our father," Tristan hissed as he grabbed his phone and went upstairs. Anne, alone, collected her things.

Tristan sat on his bed and grabbed a big plushie cat, the only stuffed animal in his room. It was a gift from Alec. He hugged it tightly as he dialed Alec's number. 

"Something happened," Tristan said as soon as Alec picked up.

"Are you crying?" Alec asked wearily. "Don't be sad, Tristan," he said calmly.

Tristan took a deep breath, "I heard that Millen-"

"Got killed," Alec finished his sentence. "Did Kristina tell you? She called everybody, but not the ambulance."

"Who did-"

"Most likely Kristina," Alec cut him off, "she went nuts, I tell you. She's the main suspect. Her fingerprints were all over the place. They'll look for DNA, but it'll be tough finding anything in that bloodbath. Even cops said that they never saw something as brutal."

Tristan remained silent. 

Anne turned on the water, and stripped, letting the coldness wash away her crime, erase all her wrongdoings. Her body quivered under the cold stream of water. She never deserved warm water, never once in her life did she feel deserving of anything.

"Henry is devastated - I was as well, but one can cry only so much-"

Tristan absorbed every word. In the end, he couldn't say it - he couldn't say his sister was the one who killed Millen. 

The fear of the hatred such a revelation would unleash held him back.