by Charlotte O’Farrell
Trevor arrived at the group’s HQ shaking, arms and face bruised from the car crash. In the distance, he heard sirens as first responders tended to the casualties he’d caused.
A week on from his eighteenth birthday, and he was done with running. If he carried on trying to chase a normal life he couldn’t have, he’d just bring more chaos.
No more hiding.
The assembled crowds of hooded figures turned to him as he entered their lair.
“I’m ready to embrace my role,” he told them, voice shaking.
They bowed down.
“All hail the Antichrist!” they chanted as one.
She lives in Nottingham, UK with her husband, daughter and cat.