Manon

Kyren winced as I pressed the last strip of bandage against his head.

“Sorry,” I whispered, not daring to meet his eyes. Fifteen minutes had passed since… the incident. That’s what I’d call it. The incident.

The TV was off — Kyren said the sound made his headache worse. My little table was a mess, my first aid kit gutted open like it had bled all over the wood. Cotton swabs, wrappers, tape. Proof of what I’d done.

“I’ll get you water,” I muttered, throat tight. ...