"Deep enough," Hazell finally said, his voice carrying a finality that made my stomach lurch. The shovel bit into the earth with a muted crunch, and each scoops a dull thud in the otherwise silent night. Together, we lifted the body, a dead weight that seemed to protest against the indignity of its fate. As we laid the body down, I couldn't help but whisper a silent apology, a plea for forgiveness from my friend—Peterson James.

There it was—the request that hung between us, heavy as the guilt that already squeezed my heart. Hazell had always been my mirror, reflecting the parts of myself I dared not acknowledge. But now, that mirror was fracturing, and I feared what we would become if those shards shattered utterly.

I swallowed hard, the words 'right and wrong' echoing like a sad church bell. My twin brother, Hazell, the other half of me, now stood across the woods, his body rigid with defiance. I tried to reach for him—the memories of scraped knees and whispered secrets in the dark—but he was slipping away from me, inch by inch, drawn into an abyss I couldn't fathom.

Standing in the moonlit clearing, an eerie contrast to the shadows cast by the surrounding trees. The moon's silver glow illuminated the leaves scattered across the forest floor. Hazell and I were drenched in sticky, thick blood, a macabre reflection of the moon's light. Our flashlights cut through the darkness, the soft ground yielding beneath our steps.

Clad in matching flannel shirts and Carhartt jackets, we strolled side by side, resembling stylish loggers. Hazell's face radiated excitement, relishing the night's events. My amusement only seemed to provoke his exasperated response.

Beneath our feet, the ground was a medley of dirt, leaves, and pine needles, emitting a gentle crackling sound as we moved together. Without our flashlights, the crescent moon lazily hung between the treetops. "This is fun," Hazell declared.

With my fingers clenched around the sturdy wooden handle, my arms ached as I surveyed the oppressive darkness. "Seriously? We're burying a body." My voice echoed in disbelief.

A sinister smile accompanied Hazell's shrug. "Remember anything from our Boy Scouts days, Ezra? Besides, who's going to stumble upon us here in the heart of nowhere." My skepticism met with a shovel thrust back into the earth, concealing our dark secret even deeper.

"Care to watch a movie later?" Hazell suggested casually, seemingly oblivious to my unease. Despite the chilly air making me shiver, I continued with my task.

"And how do we manage that, Hazell? We're literally in the middle of nowhere," I retorted sarcastically.

A glimmer danced in Hazell's eyes, his amusement clear. "Funny," He snarled, a hint of a smirk on his lips as he dug deeper.

Grumbling under my breath, I muttered, "Shovel first, before someone finds us," as I shoveled dirt into the growing pit.

Hazell chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Again, who's going to find us out here?" A chilling grin played on his lips, belying the eerie satisfaction he seemed to derive from our situation.

∆∆∆

In the hallway, Liza stood, and my heart quickened at the sight of her. Her brown hair flowed like liquid gold over her ivory shoulders. Her wide, doe-like eyes held a mixture of fear and melancholy. A shy smile revealed her soft pink lips and pearly teeth. I fought the urge to touch her face, wary of overstepping the bounds of our friendship.

Clearing my throat, I addressed her, "Hey, Liza. You heard about Peterson James?"

Liza regarded me cautiously before responding, "Yeah, his remains were found in the woods this morning."

A faint memory flashed in my mind. It was faint, but it was enough to send chills down my spine. Peterson was restrained on a stool, Hazell holding a hammer poised to strike. It was over in two swift blows, and Peterson crumpled to the ground with a heavy thud.

"Peterson..." My voice caught as shock rippled through me. Gazing into his lifeless eyes, a wave of fear and horror washed over me, replaying the gruesome images of his final moments. The once vibrant tan of his skin now lay pale and blood-streaked, the sound of metal against bone reverberating like a solemn gong through the eerily quiet kitchen. Crimson seeped from his head, pooling beneath him on the cracked tiles. His expressionless face contrasted starkly with the warmth of his memory.

My gaze shifted back to Liza in the school hallway, a childhood friend who looked at me with sorrow etched on her features. "It has to be him. Three days have passed, and still no sign of Peterson," she murmured. Hazell feigned empathy, though his smirk betrayed his genuine emotions. Despite my reluctance, I knew he was right - Peterson must endure unimaginable agony. I tore my eyes from Peterson's lifeless form, turning to Liza, whispering, "Let's hope they find him soon."

Thomas Chang, an Asian youth with a muscular build and short, slicked-back black hair, donned a brown leather jacket and ripped jeans. Dark circles underscored his eyes, casting an air of weariness over his appearance.

Reality seemed to blur and waver around Thomas as if he were gazing through a desert mirage. His vision darkened and then cleared, revealing Verma Ramirez. Her hair was gathered in twin buns held by rubber bands. Thick glasses masked her eyes, and a mint green top sported a pink bow at her neck. Though troubled, her dark gaze held less weariness than usual. I was glad to see her, yet anxiety fluttered in my chest.

"Hey, Verma," I greeted her. "What's going on?" Verma shifted slightly, an air of unease around her, though she appeared more at ease with me than with most.

My thoughts spun with disbelief as Sebastian spoke. News of Peterson's disappearance had reached my ears, yet hearing it from a classmate lent it a stark reality.

Suppressing panic, I struggled to control my guilt, the weight of it suffocating. The gaze of my classmates bore into me, the world a swirling blur of faces and voices. Sweat trickled down my brow, the room closing around me.

Amidst the tumult, Liza's voice broke through. "Are you okay, Ezra?" She asked, concerned. I wanted to confide in her, yet I managed only a weak smile and a slow nod.

"It's a tragic thought, isn't it?" I responded, my voice constricting. "The idea of enduring such a dreadful fate is unfathomable."

A disbelieving snort escaped me, drawing a reproachful glance from Thomas.

Verma drew closer, and her touch sent a tremor through me. Her warmth was reassuring, though it flushed my cheeks. "Chill, Ezra," she whispered soothingly.

Thomas chuckled softly, continuing his words. But I could only focus on the unsettling glint in Hazell's eyes, sending shivers down my spine.

"Someone has to do something about this? I mean, sorry to say, Ezra, but your dad has about a dozen cold cases lined up on his desk and zero leads. Let's go after the killer if you ask me." Sebastian's proposal to catch the killer turned my blood to ice. Before I could react, Hazell's fist collided with a locker, and his challenging words reverberated through the room. "Why not?!" He said, tapping my shoulder. We walked off down the hallway to class, walking in together.

With Mr. Pepperman's words echoing, Hazell and I slunk to our seats at the front, the weight of guilt coursing through me. Fear clung to the air, thick as fog, refusing to lift.

Mr. Pepperman advanced, glasses perched on his nose, recounting Peterson's discovery in the woods. He mentioned counseling, yet no one stirred, gripped by the enormity of what we'd heard. The class remained silent; Hazell's question about Peterson's identification guided Mr. Woods. Again, Mr. Pepperman mentioned Ms. Hale for support.

The bell tolled, releasing a flood of students eager to escape. Even Hazell darted away before returning with a look of worry. We hurried down the hallway, though my senses focused solely on my racing heart: thump-thump.

Ms. Hale's gaze, her red hair tied up, bore into me from her desk. My breaths followed the rhythm of 1,2,3 in and 1,2,3 out, desperate to steady myself. "Can we say he didn't suffer?" I stammered, my voice shaky.

Adjusting her glasses, Ms. Hale's voice enveloped me. "I can't be certain, Mr. Klein. But perhaps he's found peace now." Her eyes lingered on mine, and her next question pierced through: "Do you believe in a higher power, Ezra?"

Dread seized me, Peterson's shattered skull looming large. His violent end flashed before me, paralyzing my body. "I don't... I don't know," I finally managed, confusion clouding my thoughts. "Why?"

Ms. Hale's gaze remained steady as she answered, "Many find solace in the belief that, despite tragedy or hardship, something better awaits..." She paused, her words sinking in. "Do you ever empathize with those who suffer?"

My breaths grew shallow as I whispered, "Yeah... I often feel it's my fault, that somehow I could have prevented it."

Her gaze held mine, a searching intensity in her eyes. "You need to let go of this guilt, Ezra." She shifted her gaze as she took a sip from her mug, then set it down. I was parched, my hands moist. The news of Peterson's death still weighed heavily, and I hoped that speaking with Ms. Hale would offer some comfort.

Her voice, soft yet authoritative, enveloped me. She offered to excuse me and my brother from class. I declined. I had to remain strong, even if it felt like a struggle for survival.

"Thank you for understanding," I croaked out, the words challenging to form.

She acknowledged me with a nod. She led me away from the oppressive atmosphere of despair and anguish that had settled in the room. My gaze lingered on Alice Sebold's "The Lovely Bones," abandoned on the floor—a tale of tragic violence that now felt painfully real.

One last look at Ms. Hale before I reluctantly turned away. Her lips, a deep red, seemed to beckon me, yet I resisted. With a curt nod, I stepped into the hallway.