A/N: I've written several stories but never really posted them online. I'm not exactly holding my breath that anyone will actually read this, but I can dream, right? All feedback is much appreciated :)

Thursday, 4:27 PM.

He ran his hands through his dark hair that was sticky and matted with blood. It wasn't supposed to be like this. None of this was ever supposed to happen. He stared down at his bloodstained hands that shook like a Parkinson's patient.

He kept waiting to wake up, because this couldn't be real. Why wasn't he waking up?

His eyes glanced down at the motionless body lying at his feet.

Letting out a shaky breath, his clumsy hands fumbled to pull the phone from his back pocket. He dialed, 9-1-_

Then stopped.

He couldn't do this. He wanted to; at least that's what he told himself. But he couldn't do this to them. Even if this was all their fault. But if he made that call—―which he should do―—everything would change. If he made that call there would be no undoing it.

As things stood, only two people knew he was a murderer, and one of them was dead. He could still fix this, make it all go away. He knew what to do; it would be easy. It shouldn't be, but it would.

His cold eyes drifted back to the lifeless corpse not two feet away. He could get away with it. It's not like any of this was really his fault anyway. Why should he have to pay the price for others mistakes? This wasn't his fault. So he shouldn't be the one to get screwed.

He let out a slow breath before stepping towards the body and crouching down next to it, grabbing for the knife without even thinking.

"What the hell am I gonna do?" he whispered as he stared into the face of a dead boy. But deep down, he already knew.