First Blood
cw: death, blood, emetophobia (gagging)
Do you remember the first life you’d 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 it’s a stranger?
Is it worth even thinking about?
But what makes a stranger?
He had a name, didn’t he?
You saw the crossbow bolt pierce through his neck. You saw his pupils bobbing up and down like marbles in a cage. You didn’t hear him gasping, gagging on his own blood—but you pictured it, and that was enough. You knew it was there.
It was a good shot. The blood didn’t leave him until he hit the ground.
You only found out he was a Myste after the fact. It should be comforting, shouldn’t it? He had no one waiting for him. He was all alone. But... no, that isn’t right. That isn’t right at all.
You couldn’t see him, when it happened. He wore that mask—that gasmask, over his face. You couldn’t see what was in his eyes after he pulled the trigger. But they were the eyes of a boy, sixteen summers old, eyes that should’ve been filled with wonder and curiosity, hope and ambition.
They weren’t. You knew they weren’t.
And when you saw his hands trembling, you saw yours instead.
You heard his last words, before he was pulled away.