Cold Blood

Blood was a crimson shine, sprawled out down my arm, and thinning out down the tan of my flesh. The blade had entered quickly, leaving me to yell out my pain in the dark, abandoned night. It was excrutionating; like something I have never felt before. My entire body was on fire, and it electrified me slowly and agonizingly until my lungs hurt to breathe, and my throat hurt to make any sound. My vision blurred and I closed my eyes.
Never had I thought it would come to this. I hadn’t ever failed, not once, not ever. But for a second I lost my pride and begged for mercy, realizing I was now defenseless and vulnerable; laid out like a piece of parchment on the cool night grass.
“You think you’re so full of everything,” He said in a heavy Italian tone, “So full of power and control, well I’ll tell you one thing, You’re going to be nothing. Like you never existed, like the harvest moon in the sky.” His words had enough venom to kill a small child.
I never had the time nor the energy to interpret what he meant, or even understand his analogy, but I didn’t seem to care. He was right. I was soon going to be nothing. Because once the katana’s blade pierced my heart, I was gone.

My last words were, “Gl'iddii essere con voi, Firenzo.”