There are two kinds of people who reside in these parts: those that have lived here all their lives and those that had moved away then drifted back. Finn was the former, I was the latter. We saw the world through different lens. He thought the casual, overt sectarianism and violence was normal and I knew otherwise; that there were other kinds of society. Despite our opposing perspectives, we were both though intrinsically rooted in the place. But when I found him stabbed to death on his kitchen floor, I knew that I’d be leaving again. This time for good.
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.