Work Text:
Felix’s mind was split in two sections.
Half his mind was somewhere else, frantically spinning thoughts about how pissed Jack would be, how he’d flushed over a decade of dedication down the drain, how terrifying jail would be.
There were so many anxieties his brain was drowning in, and he could not, in turn, drown them with alcohol right now.
It was unbearable.
The other half focused on the doll.
The doll.
The doll he and Jack had gotten their hands stabbed so many times for, the doll Molly took everywhere with her from the moment she received it. Even in death, her last moments were spent screaming as she clutched her equally terrified brother and her doll.
Felix just sat there, staring at the doll. It returned the favor.
What else could he stare at? The part of the graves hosting the bodies of children whose lives had been so brutally ripped away from them? The sky, which was so cheery for witnessing the aftermath of such a horrific occurrence? The ground, where he seemed to just keep digging himself deeper and deeper down these days?
Felix didn’t know which was more torturous: Looking at the dead from his mistakes, or looking at the living who would suffer from it.
He couldn’t imagine how Jack would feel finding Molly’s bloodstained backpack, or Rosemary seeing the fancy shoes Edd had specifically picked for the occasion permanently painted.
Oh, right.
He had to hide the evidence.
He’d been procrastinating that for a while, hadn’t he?
Felix slowly got up and climbed out of the grave, his blood and dirt caked hands eager to have this part over with.