#mischa snapshot

This wasn't the first time she had killed before.

The butcher knife trembled in Mischa's hand. She had used one before. Just like this one. But she had been a little girl then. And she had only gotten lucky. It was only luck that separated her from oblivion.

But the man had already been sent off. Mischa hissed through her teeth. She had spent weeks stalking him. He had been a peddler close to the orphanage. No one was likely to miss him. She watched his blood leak from his chest to mix in the mud.

Bile rushed to the back of her throat, burning her tongue and making her teeth clack. Mischa thought about retching, but forced her stomach to obey. Her brother killed so calmly. And he was only a few years older than her. Besides, she was younger than he when she started killing. No, the first didn't count. Did it? Could it?

She wondered not for the first time if she was damned. The Sisters at the orphanage talked about Hell. She worried about it often. Flames in her nightmares burning her and her brother in their sleep. But Hannibal never got nightmares. Mischa still saw the first man to ever attack her in her dreams. She saw herself stab him in the leg. Then the neck. No emotion just pure energy. Muscle spasms and one lucky push. Just like how the peddler died. Messily. Clumsily. 

Her brother never stayed over his kills this long. She needed to hide the body. Sudden panic overwhelmed her. She couldn't lift that! She couldn't even drag him! They were going to catch her and send her down to Hell for sure. 

A snapping of twigs behind her caused Mischa to shriek. She pointed the knife out with both hands. "'anniba?"

Her brother didn't so much as flinch at the sight of the knife blade so close to his neck. "What happened here?"

"He...he...attacked me."

"And you happened to have a knife that you stole from the kitchens, is that so?"

"He attacked me," she repeated stubbornly.

"No he didn't."

Mischa snarled and echoed back, "No he didn't."

Hannibal knelt next to the corpse. "Why did you do it, Mischa?"

"I just...I...I wanted to see what would happen."

Something sparked behind the shadows that usually plagued the maroon in her brother's eyes. "Really?"

"I messed it up," she tried not to sniffle. Crying was for silly little girls with no manners. Mischa was ten years old. She was not a silly little girl anymore. "I was supposed to cut him here," she made a motion with her finger across her throat.

"Went for the heart instead. That's not bad, Mischa. No. That's not all bad at all."

"Not bad?" Mischa knelt in the dirt with her brother to look at the body. The sensation of sickness left her. This was like when they were little back home. When they would go traipsing through the gardens or through the wooded paths.

"So," Hannibal said placing a hand on Mischa's head and ruffing her short hair. "You've been following me."

"You were following me too." This was good. This was normal. He was paying attention to her again. He was looking at her now. They were a family again. Going to Hell together was better than watching him go on his own. And it wasn't so bad. After the sickness, it was almost like being lighter than air. It was almost better than being allowed to go home again.

"Truce?" he said holding out his hand.