Miner 49ers {Day 5 Feast}

owen {♔} bowers-fox

The knife flies from my hand and makes solid contact with the girl from nine, and before I can say anything she falls to the ground, a cannon sounding her departure from our existence. I suppose I should be happy—proud even, that I took life away from the one who killed one of my friends (but you can’t have those here, it’ll only ruin you). But I can’t find the joy that I’m owed, and instead a wave of guilt washes over me and pangs at my already heavy heart, and I rummage through her things in silence, taking what looks necessary and nothing else before turning back to Aelia (she’s still here; she’s not dead).

“I did it, Aelia.”

(I did it for you and Charlie and Darius, for anyone but myself).

The girl who was so close to death and the boy who was looking pretty beaten up himself had already fled the scene, leaving me alone with the girl who had ended Aelia. Just like Leon, I’d like to ask her a million questions, but I can’t even begin to speak one word, let alone put together coherent thoughts, so I only wipe the tears from my eyes and transfer them to my shirt, though new ones take their place in record time. The lack of words in the air are broken by the sounds of my own crying, and though I’d usually make some attempt to muffle the noise they made to some extent, my arms are shaking and bloody and I simply can’t find the strength to bring them to my face.

So I stay on my knees in the dirt between the bodies of the girl from nine and Aelia, and I sob. I cry hard enough to shake the ground beneath my feet and the hearts of whoever can see me and for once I am not sorry. I’m fighting an uphill battle and losing those I love one by one, and that’s something I deem worthy of spending unrelenting sorrow on.

The girl from eleven, I believe I heard her addressed as Ingrid, doesn’t make a move towards me, but instead makes a simple suggestion, “You should leave, she’s in a better place now.” I don’t believe her, not in the slightest, but despite this I nod and attempt to bring myself to my feet, holding my hand weakly against the deep cut on my calf, though it doesn’t seem to be slowing down the bleeding much.

I’m about to stumble back out into the afternoon sun, but the screeching cry of a bat catches my attention and I turn to see her spear catching one of them with ease, and it falls dead just split seconds after the ear-shattering noise. The weapon seems light in her hands compared to the axe that feels as if it’s anchoring me to the ground, and I drag it behind me in the dirt as I continue on, leaving with one less person than I walked in with.

But I don’t get far before hearing the squall of bats again, and I turn in time to receive the full force of the bat’s claws against my bicep, a deep cry escaping my throat as the blood begins to seep from the wound, the edge of my vision going dark as I stumble out in a desperate attempt to escape everything I’ve seen since sunrise.