Status: its in lowercase bc #aesthetic

A Life in Intervals


you were twelve when you first killed.

you don't remember the details of why. you remember that they hurt someone you'd liked. you remember that you were sad because of that. you remembered that you were angry.

(you would later learn that most of the law is based on the previous sentiments, but dressed up in fancier terms.)

you tracked them down. it took you several days--you were not as adept at tracking as you would become. when they turned around, you were upon them. you sliced them open, navel to chin. you did not know then what factors constituted a clean kill. you did not know then how to angle your blade to destroy the heart or lungs, or how much pressure you had to apply to slice open the arteries or bisect the wind pipe. you'd only ever seen death on tv, or when your friends did it, but they all used guns.

so they lived, gurgling and thrashing. you screamed, covered in their blood, slashed again, hitting them on the back of their neck. they spasmed at your feet, but still did not die. you slashed at their neck again, but still too shallow, but tearing out something you would later realize were their vocal cords. their hand snaked out, grabbing your ankles. you shrieked again, and hacked it off clumsily. you dug your blade into their side, their leg, and their stomach, each strike spraying up more blood onto you. finally, you pierced their lung, killing them. they offered nothing but a gurgle of blood as their dying words.

you threw up.