𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈 : 𝐖𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝

Trigger Warning: Blood

. . .

The Sergeant was reduced to stone while you dissipated into mist. Crickets hopped away from your shadowing figure with great haste. The growing fog only grew denser from under your skirts and blotted out fireflies' blinkers. Not even a bat had the bravery to flap in the pale light as your dark, seeping aura poisoned everything it touched. Only humid winds dared to reach for your wrist and crept through your veins.

Although you couldn't see the treeline well from where you stood, with the fog smoking from the forest, the damp breeze whispered that it would rain any second now.

Your haze thickened as you stood in paired silence for so very long. It grew wet on your neck until little drops fell from the heavens in fat plops. You tilted slightly to catch diamonds falling from the sky's abyss. The rain quickly came down in a curtain, chilling the burning skin underneath your costume. The rain washed you clean of any feelings until your once fiery blood pooled in your shoes and seeped into the dirt.

So, whether it be water or blood, the world would drown tonight.

The monster's drunken eyes darted left to right in the moonlight, obviously looking to escape from under the crushing of your index finger. You took a mindless step forward, forcing him further into his outhouse until he stumbled and fell onto the seat. The Sergeant mumbled something to you after he fell. His tainted breath carried over the storm, but his words remained a mystery. All you heard was heavy rain beating every soul into submission.

Your body was not your own as you studied him; you acted on instinct rather than thought. To feel so disconnected during the most crucial moment in your short life–a moment life had built since the day you were torn from the womb–should have been worrying. You needed the utmost concentration, but Nature clouded your senses. And, if things were not disturbing enough, your reaction did not stem from fear. There was a sort of nothingness that kept your arm stiff and locked in on the Sergeant's chest. A sort of nothingness that kept you planted firmly in the growing puddles. A sort of nothingness that made your eyes sting with exhaustion.

The Sergeant attempted to speak to you again. His face shook with anger and fear this time, but you still couldn't hear him. Only the torrential downpour flooded your ears. You could read a word from his lips, and you were sure he called you a 'witch.' His anger turned to pleas when you failed to answer with your dead tongue and blank expression. Tears barely reflected in what little moonlight peaked from behind dark curtains to watch the show.

The way he cowered... the Sergeant reminded you of Floch. Perhaps all men turned to cravens when cornered by an empty woman. Now, you had to decide what to do with him. Should you pull him out and slit his throat in the ground? Was it better to jam the blade where he sat? You weren't sure where to start, but you wanted the option with the least bloodshed.

You'd grown so tired of blood.

"Show the world what it truly means to be a witch," Mother sang with the rain, and your body moved before you could ponder the words.

Keeping your gun pointed, you tossed the knife into the air with your opposite hand. Instead of reclaiming the hilt, you caught the serrated edge and squeezed. The pain was nothing compared to what you had felt at the hands of the shivering lump before you, and you only loosened your grip when rain and blood dripped into the grass. You whispered gibberish under your breath the more blood mingled into the puddles–turning dirt brown to deadly black–and the Sergeant watched in muffled terror.

He was rather pathetic, wasn't he? To die crying on the privy was no way for a man to go. It should be more painful for a man like him, a dark voice whispered. It should take longer than one night. It should last an eternity.