Wyatt snapped awake.
Air rushed into his lungs like he'd been drowning.
He jolted upright, eyes wide, heart slamming so hard it hurt. The room spun for a second, walls blurring, shadows stretching in ways that didn't make sense. His hands came up instinctively, trembling, fingers splayed like he expected to see blood dripping from them.
But there was nothing. Just his hands.
"W-where..." His voice cracked halfway through the word.
Silence answered him. A dead, suffocating silence.
He looked around slowly, panic creeping in layers. The orphanage. The bodies. The smell in the air-iron, smoke, something burnt. His stomach twisted. His head started to throb, a deep pressure right behind his eyes.
Then it hit.
Memories of what happened flooded back, the world tilting as they overlapped and crashed into each other. His body locked up, trembling under the weight of it all.
And when it finally stopped-
something else forced its way out of him. Vomit.
His throat burned, stomach cramping as he retched until there was nothing left.
He wiped his mouth with trembling hands, afraid to look at them-as if he'd see blood instead of bile.
He shut his eyes tight, afraid to look at the damage caused by his own hands.
"I didn't...I didn't..." He tried to speak, but his throat burned. Tears started to fall from his eyes; it was all too much for him.
"What's happening to me?" His voice came out hoarse and tired, his sobs barely audible. "Why is this happening to me?"
"Ah..." He broke down in tears, curling into a ball and cradling himself. "This isn't real, this isn't real, this isn't real..."
But there was no denying it. The smell of ash was too real, the memories in his head too detailed.
Wyatt cried for minutes non-stop-fear, guilt, shame, he felt it all.
"I killed everyone...I killed everyone. Oh God, I really am a monster." He cried into his chest.
Slowly, tiredness crept in, the quietness cradling him into a quiet nap.
"Over here." A voice boomed out, snapping Wyatt out of his daze.
"It's the orphanage, the orphanage is on fire!" The same voice yelled out.
Multiple footsteps began running in Wyatt's direction, townspeople no doubt, here to help-but they were too late.
"Oh no!" Wyatt gasped. "Oh no, oh no, oh no..." His heart hammered, wild and frantic like it wanted to burst out of his chest. Already hated for the murder he didn't commit all those years ago, if they saw this scene they would blame him in a heartbeat.
His head raced. Should he plead innocence? Pretend to pass out? Maybe even injure himself to look like another casualty? But one thought drowned out the others.
Run.
He forced himself up. His legs shook, screaming in protest, but his mind was set. One step. Then another. A slow stagger that turned into a jog-then a desperate, uneven sprint.
The townsmen had reached the site, shocked by the scene they witnessed. Some couldn't even hold back their tears.
"What happened?"
"Who did this?"
Questions flew around, but there were no definite answers.
"Are there...no survivors?" A man asked, even though he felt like he knew the answer. He looked to be the leading figure among them.
"Not one," someone said in a sad tone, causing the congregation to let out sounds of grief.
"Those poor children. As if they hadn't been through enough already."
"Rally up the remains you can find. We should at least give them a proper burial-" the man in charge said.
"Sir. Up ahead, I see someone running," someone suddenly shouted.
They all turned at once, catching sight of a naked boy scurrying as fast as he could.
"There!"
"It must have been him!"
"That's the boy!"
They gave chase, every one of them running as fast as they could, but it was of no use.
He was already far-too far for them to grab-but not far enough to be safe. Footsteps thundered behind him, voices rising into a single ugly roar.
"Stop!"
"Murderer!"
"Monster!"
He didn't look back. He couldn't. His lungs burned, vision blurring, feet barely listening to him anymore.
Something whistled through the air.
Pain exploded in his shoulder.
Wyatt cried out as the stone struck him hard, spinning him off balance. He hit the ground face-first, the breath ripped from his chest. More stones followed-thudding into dirt, skidding past his head.
"I-I didn't do it!" he sobbed, pushing weakly at the ground. "I swear! It wasn't me!" But they couldn't hear him, and even if they did, they wouldn't believe.
Another stick cracked against his back.
"Murderer!"
"Don't let him escape!"
"Kill him!"
Tears streamed down his face as he dragged himself up, shoulder screaming, body shaking so badly he almost collapsed again. He ran crooked now, every step agony, every breath a knife.
"I didn't do it," he cried again, voice breaking. "Please-I didn't-"
No one heard. No one listened.
Eventually the distance grew. The shouting faded into curses, spat after him like poison.
"Rot in hell!"
"Demon child!"
"May you die alone!"
He heard all of it.
Every word.
For some reason, his ears caught every syllable, every ounce of hatred, every wish for his suffering-and they carved into him deeper than any wound ever could.
By the time he disappeared into the dark, Wyatt was sobbing so hard he could barely breathe. Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just broken.
And when the voices were finally gone, when the night swallowed him whole, all that remained was a small, bleeding boy running from a world that had already decided what he was.
"Why does the world hate me?" Wyatt sniffled. He had lost every will to fight. "What did I ever do...I'm just a kid, I...I didn't kill anyone."
Wyatt's body shuddered as he remembered everything. Everything the monster that wore his body did-the screams of the children, the sound of Sister Lucy's head crushing deep into the earth, and one soul-crushing sentence.
"You should fear me instead."
He hugged his body in fear, tears streaming uncontrollably down his face.
"What...was that? What am I?" He asked himself in grief. His lungs hurt, his body ached, and his eyes were swollen from crying.
He had no idea where he was, and it didn't matter. That was the least of his problems.
"I'm cursed...I'm cursed...I'm cursed...I'm cursed..." He repeated over and over again. Repeating phrases was his only way of staying sane.
He sang the words over and over until, finally, he fell into a peaceful, much-needed sleep-and for a moment, he forgot all his problems, all his pain, and just slept.