Somebody died. It should be me.

I woke up this morning and saw that the news had finally broken: the one who kills was gone. I don’t even want to type his name; he doesn’t deserve even the smallest piece of my memory. He died a month ago, of a heart attack, but the announcement was only made public today. <br><br>Within the first few minutes, my phone was flooded with messages from old friends and familiar faces. <br>“Are you okay?”<br><br>I am. <br>I’m not. <br>I’m relieved. <br>I’m furious.<br>I’m so fucking confused. <br><br>I don’t really know where to start. There is so much I want to say, but the words won’t come. Instead, I find myself staring at my hands, my eyes, my skin. I’m so angry that I get to be here. I shouldn’t be here. I should be dead. I should be gone. I stayed. I survived. I made it.