That sinking feeling in my spine returns, and it’s harder to shake this time. My eyes flick to the strange wound in his side, and I have to swallow down the wrongness of it all.
“Have you ever taken a life? Before today?” I ask.
“No.”
I climb onto the table and sit facing him. As strange as it seems, I swear I can feel his emotion—that familiar weight of guilt and disgust that comes after doing something you know can’t take back. It sparks distant memories that feel more like someone else’s life than mine.
My hands press into my thighs. “No one told you what it would be like, did they?”
“They did, but they were wrong.” The bed creaks as he raises a hand to rub his eyes. “They were cheering for his death,” he whispers darkly.
Wind howls past the window as the sandstorm continues to rage outside.
“That’s the worst part, isn’t it? The incongruities? How none of it seems to make any sense?” That’s where the true horror of warfare lies. Where expectation is crushed beneath the strangeness of reality. Beneath the rawness of death and despair, and the cruelty of others.
“Yes,” he whispers.
He took a life in the most disturbing setting possible. Even worse, he wasn’t fighting a war or trying to protect anyone. He was killing for killing’s sake. He took a life while thousands cheered him on, and it’s clear that being in that arena was not a choice he would have made on his own. At least not if he knew what it actually meant. Despite our many differences, this is something we have in common.
My eyes fall to my feet. “I wish I could tell you it gets easier, but it doesn’t. The killing, I mean. But that’s probably a good thing, you know? There are people who can kill without a second thought, and I sometimes wonder if that would be easier? But then I remember that killing should never be easy.” I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’m not in that business anymore, but I do know that you should try to talk about it. If you hold in that pain, it’s going to get worse.”
“I chose to be here, and I have to live with the consequences of those choices.” He swallows and rubs his palm over his chest as if he’s trying to rub away an ache, before adding, “I don’t know why I told you all that.”
Our eyes meet, and a look of confusion flits across his face before it’s replaced by shock. His left hand grips his chest violently, and I watch in horror as his claws sink into his skin.
11
OR SOMETHING
AMARA
“STOP!” I SHOUT, as I jump off the table and rush towards Vexar, desperate to stop him from mauling himself.
With all the strength I can muster, I pull at his hand, trying to wrench it back. It’s like fighting a brick wall. My thrumming heart becomes a deafening roar. Electricity bursts over my skin. Animalistic fear grips me. Our eyes lock. And just as quickly as the chaos started, it stops. His hand gives under the pressure of my own, the bolts of electricity stop, and my heart calms.
“What the fuck,” I say breathlessly.
His gaze falls to his chest, where five pin-pricks of blood well like red blossoms in a field of golden grain. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.
I drop his hand and step back. “Are you going to tell me what just happened?”
“Everything is fine,” he grunts.
“Are you sure, because it looked like you were trying to rip your heart out after confessing some heavy shit.”
“I was not trying to rip my heart out.”
“Then what were you doing?”
No answer.
I let out a ragged breath and turn towards the window. A gust of sand-filled air hits me, cooling my sweat-damp skin and covering me in a thin layer of grit. I close my eyes and press my palms into the table.
I’ve dealt with plenty of intense, fucked-up situations, and never once have I felt the way I did a few seconds ago. It was like my body was on fire and I was … terrified. Terrified that he was hurting himself. Terrified that I wouldn’t be able to stop him. Like some bone-deep instinct to protect.
Fuck. I don’t know.
The urge to trust him is so strong and seemingly out of place, considering everything that just happened, and yet, it’s exactly what I want to do.
