cw: death, blood, emetophobia (gagging)
Do you remember the first life youâd taken?
Would it be easier to remember the first life you saw reach its end, right before your eyes?
Was it peaceful? Was it cut tragically short?
Does it hang in your chest, like a rotting rope that refuses to fray?
Does it crunch up your ribs like metal teeth, and make your mouth into a stomach?
How does it feel when itâs a stranger?
Is it worth even thinking about?
But what makes a stranger?
He had a name, didnât he?
You saw the crossbow bolt pierce through his neck. You saw his pupils bobbing up and down like marbles in a cage. You didnât hear him gasping, gagging on his own bloodâbut you pictured it, and that was enough. You knew it was there.
It was a good shot. The blood didnât leave him until he hit the ground.
You only found out he was a Myste after the fact. It should be comforting, shouldnât it? He had no one waiting for him. He was all alone. But... no, that isnât right. That isnât right at all.
You couldnât see him, when it happened. He wore that maskâthat gasmask, over his face. You couldnât see what was in his eyes after he pulled the trigger. But they were the eyes of a boy, sixteen summers old, eyes that shouldâve been filled with wonder and curiosity, hope and ambition.
They werenât. You knew they werenât.
And when you saw his hands trembling, you saw yours instead.
You heard his last words, before he was pulled away.