Blue

Molded Rivers

The sudden current of water and his battle instincts urged him out of the way just in time. The siren's claws swiped through the water; ten pointed knives intent on exposing the color of his insides to the other sirens. Instantly, the other sirens jumped into action, gripping her wild arms and pulling him away from him. She was struggling against them, flailing, a predator trapped in a silver cage, intent on his death but unable to connect her talons to his flesh.

She was yelling at him. She was screaming and growling the words. He couldn't make out anything. That was a 'D', he could see the flick of her tongue, and that was an 'F'; she screwed up her face and practically spat it at him. But there were no words. Her face was grotesque, obscene. She was so enraged she looked otherworldly. He was transported distinctly back to his first Hunt, when the humanity had fallen off these women like it was just a silken shawl they had wrapped around their hair to shield their true natures. It had fluttered to the floor, leaving them terrifying and monstrous. The woman before him was no longer a woman. She was a siren. Enraged and intent on his death. He turned back to Blue.

"I don't understand," he tried to say, his hands inadvertently telling her, 'I'm confused.' Her eyes caught on his hands for a moment before flicking back up to his face.

"Samara wants to kill you. They all do. They took your refusal to help me as a signal that it was time for you to die," Blue said.

"I didn't refuse to help you!" he said, his fingers following along now. He had lost his decorum a bit. It wasn't that he wanted to live, necessarily, it was just that he couldn't stand the idea of Blue getting the wrong idea.

"You asked why." Her eyes were on his hands again.

"I just... Do you even understand how much killing I've had to do?" he asked her. The words felt soft in his throat. He wished she could read the signs, so he wouldn't have to force the words into the space between them like this.

The other siren, Samara, was pointing wildly in his direction. He couldn't stop his eyes from shifting to her. She was pointing at his head. Was she threatening to take it off his shoulders? She was saying something, over and over. He couldn't quite make it out...

And then he could.

"SIREN KILLER! SIREN KILLER!" she cried. Her gaze was fixed on the tattoos on his face, her face nearly crimson with the emotion on it. His gaze turned back to Blue. She looked... concerned. Blue, who he had grown up with. Blue, who had been murdered. His gaze whipped back to Samara. She had grown up with someone too. She had been murdered too. Horrified, he turned stiffly back to the great crowd of sirens. The women before him looked back at him. His body was freezing up. His eyes were so wide he thought they might pop out of his head at any moment. His fists clenched. He took a huge gulp of water but got no air out of the action and choked. He had been killing women. All this time, he had been killing women. How many Hunts had he joined? Had he led? He had given advice on how best to kill these women. He had raised a sword against them and swung, removing their limbs. Oh god, he had cut these women's heads off. He was collapsing in on himself. He was never going to find his way out of this debilitating tunnel. He had killed so many women that he had run out of space. He had placed a sick, disgusting line on his body for every woman he had killed. His fingers were moving across his flesh. He was removing his armor, scraping his fingers against the tattoos, trying to scrape them from his body. He had to get them off. He had to get them off. He couldn't breathe. He had to tear the tattoos from his flesh, from his soul. All this, all of it, all that he had endured, had been for nothing. Worse than nothing, far far worse than nothing. All those thoughts of the Samurai code, of honor. Nothing. He had no honor. He deserved to die. He was less than nothing. He was a murderer. These women had been brutalized, only for him to brutalize them again. He was never going to be able to take another breath again. He couldn't see. He needed to throw up, to get this awful feeling inside of him out of him. He covered his head with his hands and wished they would tear him apart.