This chapter is an entry for Day #12 (A Grave Day) of Aim to Engage II

That's it. I'm sick and tired of burying my friends, who were killed by their unleashed secrets.

On Monday, November 12, a bullet slashed through Darrell's frontal lobe.

On Tuesday, November 13, Fleur was stabbed by knives.

On Wednesday, November 14, a cement-carrier slammed Giuseppe's Jeep on a highway.

On Thursday, November 15, Aries had deathly complications.

On Friday, November 16, Igor was suffocated.

On Saturday, November 17, Laritta's lungs had refused to cooperate.

On Sunday, November 18, tomorrow, I'll be the last one standing.

The orange-colored graveyard is where the six tombstones now rest.

I sat ahead of Laritta's tombstone and fished out my cloth-covered diary.

Lavender scent bloomed out as I skimmed to a random chapter, the petals brown and sick.

July 18, 2018. Giuseppe and Darrell have dusted their hands off the lavender garden.

It's time to prove if my theories are true.

October 31, 2018. Halloween. Group party, 7 pm, Igor's flat.

Darrell had a raven costume and his raven-shaped taser.

Fleur had a Fairy Godmother costume and a handgun—hidden under her sleeves.

Giuseppe wore his old street rags and brought his favorite throw-knives.

Aries appeared in a Grim Reaper's cloak. She showed us her newest weapon . . . a remote control.

Igor, who was clad in a ninja's garment, unlocked his mini fridge and revealed his stock of cognac, brandy, vodka . . .

Laritta dressed in a ranger's outfit and a crocodile-skinned belt.

And I told them about my newest machinery invention. I can set an invisible device on either side of walls and shrink its size.

We started planning our massacre, which the public will know as The End of Thanksgiving.

Who knew that in the end, each of us would die, killed by the other's favorite weapon. And they spared me last.

Here was the evidence found at the scenes; a gun, knives, a discarded remote control under Aries' bed, alcohols and benzodiazepines, a peeled belt, and my invisible devices.

We self-suspected the leaker of our secrets and killed them.

But in the end, it was an outsider's work.

Someone interrupts the tranquility of November in the form of heavy and composed footsteps.

A bald imbecile kneeled next to me, a microphone attached to his collar. He placed a bouquet of lavenders on Laritta's grave.

He brought memories from July 18, 2018. The last, thankfully, clueless nuisance.

Continuation of the July 18, 2018 entry:
They were supposed to get rid of four. But where is the last one, the potential leaker in a journalist's shade . . . Kevin Santoso?

Here.

A set of pained cries and a raven's squawk accompanied my footsteps. They were erratic, unsteady, and occasionally halted. Harsh gasps interrupted them. A thud against stone carved a small smirk on my face. Along with the victorious squawk.

I've finished off the haunting terror, who would've revealed our past sins to the world.

So it's time to stand through the transparent cylinder, where I can reunite with my six companions.