Chapter Text
I don't own cherrybomb or The circle. The creators own them......
Malachy sat hunched in the corner of the cell, his fingers trembling as they brushed against the cold, rough stone walls. He hadn’t said a word since he was dragged into this place, his mind too clouded with the echoes of what had happened. The other prisoners didn’t care. To them, he was just another young man who had crossed the line, just another "murderer."
"Hey, pretty boy," one of them sneered from across the cell block, his voice laced with mockery. "Was it worth it? Taking out your best mate?"
Malachy flinched at the words, but he didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The memory of that night was a living nightmare, replaying over and over in his mind. He had been drunk—no, not just drunk, but reckless, stupid, and arrogant. The kind of arrogance that made him think he was invincible.
He and Luke had been friends for years. Best friends, really. They had grown up together, shared secrets, and fought battles side by side. Luke was the kind of guy everyone liked: charming, level-headed, the responsible one. He had always been there to pull Malachy back from the edge when he got too close.
But not this time.
It had been a stupid argument—something about a girl, or maybe it was about money. Malachy could barely remember. They had been at some house party, fueled by alcohol and bravado. Words turned into shouts, shouts turned into shoves, and before Malachy knew it, they were outside. The fight escalated, and Malachy picked up the first thing he could find—a loose brick from the garden wall.
He hadn’t meant to hurt Luke, not really. It was just meant to scare him, to end the fight. But the brick slipped from his hand mid-swing, and the sound of it cracking against Luke’s temple was a sound Malachy knew he’d never forget. Luke fell, his body limp, his eyes staring up at the stars as though he could still see them.
For a moment, everything froze. The cheers and gasps of the onlookers faded into silence. Malachy had dropped to his knees, shaking Luke’s shoulders, begging him to wake up. But there was no waking up from this.
When the police arrived, Malachy didn’t resist. How could he? He’d killed his best friend. The word felt foreign in his head: killed. It didn’t feel real.
Now, in the silence of the jail cell, Malachy sat staring at the floor. The weight of guilt was heavier than any chain. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. It was an accident. But no one cared. The world had already made up its mind. He was reckless, a bad boy, a delinquent. And now, a killer.
He thought about Luke’s family, about how they must hate him now. About how his own family probably did too. He thought about Luke’s easy laugh, the way he always tried to fix things, and the way he’d never get to fix anything again. Because of him.
"Hey, killer," another inmate called out, laughing. "You gonna cry about it?"
Malachy didn’t reply. He just sat there, silent and still, drowning in the realization that his life—the life he thought was perfect, easy, and untouchable—was over. And worse, so was Luke’s.