𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈 : 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 *

Trigger Warnings: Blood, Sexual Content, & Panic Attack

PLEASE READ: Given the warnings, this chapter will be another heavy one. Not to bring my own experiences into the mix, as you are not here to read about my life, but some of the reader's reactions are reflections of my experiences living with complex PTSD. I understand that these topics are highly triggering, so please read at your own risk and take care of yourself.

If you need to take a break while reading, or you have to drop the fic, do it. At the end of the day, this is just fanfiction, and your mental health is not worth risking for a couple thousand words that are selfishly written as free therapy.

For those of you that do choose to read, if you feel I romanticized/glamorized mental health struggles in any way, shape, or form, please let me know so I can rewrite/unpublish. Although I am healing, I do not wish the feelings I experience and that some of you might feel on anyone, and the last thing I want to do is incorrectly depict how difficult these struggles are and how they affect almost, if not every, facet of a person's life.

I love you all, and sorry if this is overly intense. I would just feel awful if any of you are negatively affected after all the kindness you've shown to me and each other over the last 7 months. <3

. . .

It was strange–trading Mrs. Yeager's secretly-baked pie for a bow. To give up something so sweet in exchange for something so destructive... it felt sinful, but you played along anyway.

The first night with Kenny, the only task he challenged you with was shooting a candle off a table outside his shack. The killer gorged himself on the blueberry treat as you lost dozens of arrows in the dirt. Although your arms had strengthened over the last few weeks, you lacked the steadiness and fearlessness needed to stretch the string fully, and your trembling fingers kept catching the fletchings you released.

"It's not gonna snap, kid," the Ripper said with his mouth half-full. "Pull it to your ear, and get that elbow up higher. Keep your fingers out of the way, too, or you'll nick your tips."

You took the critiques and tried again. Although it boosted your shots' speed and accuracy, as many came close, all still whizzed past the target, never quite connecting with the flickering candle wax that grew shorter with each miss. They would stray to the left, fly too high, or fall just short, proving that you could never quite connect an arrowhead to a target.

Perhaps it was because your mind wandered off to how Sasha hunted with her father growing up and showed off her talents each time she returned with venison flanks for your father to cook up or raccoon pelts for him to fashion into hats. When you were little, she'd put apples on Connie's head, stand him in front of a tree, and shoot them off like it was the most effortless activity in the world–easier than sleeping. They'd charge a nickel to let people watch their risky trick, and they always made it so damn simple. Connie never shook with fear the way you trembled, and Sasha channeled smooth, seamless breaths each time she locked eyes with the fruit, which were so different from your shaking inhales.

Warm blood finally flowed from your fingertips from earlier mistakes, staining feathers red in the moonlight, but you kept at it. The warmth guided itself over your skin in a soft embrace.

"Hold your breath," a voice whispered in the wind. "Take a big one before you shoot, hold it, let go, and release the air once the arrow flies. It's easy, little one."

You grasped Sasha's seamless breaths from your memories and replaced your air with her own. If Sasha had been your teacher, she would have taught you faster. If she ever had the foresight to take you hunting, the Segreant would already be dead. If she were here, none of this would have happened. Sasha's body might not be there, but her voice still sang through your mind as you recreated her actions.