Hollow

She was broken. Hollow. Dying.

The sky was dark above her, and it seemed so far away. The dirt walls around her seemed to be closing in on her. Killing her slowly. She couldn't breathe.

So she lay there. On the dirt ground in a pool of her own blood. She tasted it in her mouth, like metal. Her limbs twisted in unnatural directions. And the pain pounded in her head, over and over again. Giving her a quick, blissful moment of nothingness before coming back and making her want to scream. She couldn't, though. Couldn't even open her mouth. She was too weak. Was there no end to this?

Murderer. Monster. Psychopath.

The memories flashed in her mind, reminding her, not letting her forget. Was this what they had felt? Every time she cut them down, had the pain been as strong for them for them as strong as it was for her? Was it stronger, for those left behind?

She tried not to think. Tried not to do anything. But the memories kept coming, replaying in her mind. Torturing her over and over again.

Cath. Leading them and carrying the jewel embedded knife she had given her.

The baker.

The butcher.

The locksmith.

The seamstress who had given her cookies as a child.

And everyone she had ever known. The people who had taken her in as a child. Who had raised her and taught her everything she knew had turned against her.

When they had surrounded her, she had seen it in their eyes; they didn't know her anymore. They had lost hope. Given up after years of begging her to stop. And they didn't want to do it, but they had to.

For the good of the people.

Murderer.

The villagers, standing in a circle with their knives and swords and pitchforks... they were trying to protect themselves. To save themselves before more of them died. They had been trying to save themselves from her.

She let out a small cry, and felt a single tear well up in her eye. She didn't have the energy for anything else.

Cath, though. Cath had wanted revenge. For the death of her brother and sister and friends and relatives.

Cath had forgotten what they had been like as children, and she didn't blame her. So she had stood still as Cath thrust the knife three times into her heart and twisted. She had stood still as Cath threw her against the wall, over and over again before tossing her into the pit and letting her fall.

Murderer. Monster. Psychopath.

The words Cath had hissed at her with each stab, laced with loathing.

She had tried to apologize, because she couldn't stand the thought of Cath remembering her like this. She had tried to apologize because she wanted Cath to think of what they used to be like. The children running through the fields and woods and laughing. Together so much that they were often mistaken for sisters. But her mouth wouldn't open for anything but a scream. And a cry, when she hit the ground.

And now she lay there. Broken. Hollow. Dying.

When the last threads of life escaped her, she fell - relieved - into death's waiting arms.

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