I was dynamite.
Explosive.
Never slowed down.
I was Nitro, and I always hit my mark.
I didn’t miss. I didn’t fail… especially not at this. Not at the one thing I’d spent years perfecting.
Lifting my right leg, I yanked a knife from my boot holster, this one heavier than the others. A hunting blade rather than a throwing one. The weight and shape weren’t made for this, but I was miles past giving a shit about proper equipment. Standing before the target again, I closed my eyes. The darkness behind my lids swirled with red-tinged frustration.
One.
I inhaled deeply, trying to find that steady point inside me where distractions fell away.
Two.
My fingers adjusted on the handle, muscle memory seeking the perfect grip.
Three.
The noise of the world faded, leaving only my heartbeat.
Four.
I visualized the target, its concentric circles, the bullseye at its center.
Five.
My arm tensed, ready to release.
Six.
I imagined the knife's trajectory, its perfect arc through space.
Seven.
My breathing synchronized with my heartbeat.
Eight.
The blade became part of me, an extension of my will.
Nine.
I felt calm. Centered. Ready.
Ten.
My eyes snapped open. I threw the knife with a practiced flick of my wrist; the motion so ingrained it was like breathing. Time seemed to slow as the blade tumbled through the air, spinning end over end. Despite the weight of the hilt and the curve of the blade, it seemed to be flying true.
It hit the target with a dull thud, handle first, and clattered to the ground. Useless. Impotent. Just like me.
My badly frayed control finally snapped.
"Cock sucking son of a bitch!” My voice echoed across the compound's grounds. I didn't care who heard. Let them come. Let them see the sad sack I’d become. Couldn’t even throwa mother fucking blade correctly anymore. None of my pack brothers came running. Somewhere in the near distance, a stray dog barked in surprise. It seemed to be the only creature in the world who witnessed my distress.
I stalked toward the target. My vision narrowed, tunneling until all I could see was the target’s untouched vinyl surface, the perfect concentric lines of red and white, that should have been dotted with my blades but was instead pristine.
