Let’s go down memory lane
🌋- A memory about their first heartbreak
“Я не знаю с чего начать.”
Outcasts have a way of finding each other. A woman mixed among men –a master at her craft, never missing her mark. She starkly stood out in the encampment. Her ashen complexion contrasted with her long, black hair. It didn’t help that most of the men stared and heckled. Mostly she met them with indifferent silence, but occasionally her auburn eyes would meet them, threatening they’d be her next target. She had a way of making threats without actually articulating them. Something he always enjoyed observing.
His skills were proven and respected but he was still left on the outskirts of the social circles. Innately different from those around him, he recognised and had long accepted that they’d never understand each other. He was content alone.
He doesn’t even recall how it happened, only that they drifted together. They began to share meals and spare time, initially in silence. Perhaps it was because it was the only seat left. Or because they had no else. But eventually, that silence started to fill with conversation. He learnt that her father taught her to shoot. She learnt that he prefers hand-to-hand combat. Rigour eventually relaxed into mirth.
Her company became something that he desired. Charging into the front line, he found his foes falling around him before he even pulled the trigger – the moment he knew it wasn’t onesided. Instead of admitting that it meant something to him, he’d facetiously complain that she’s stealing his kills. It became a habit of hers.
It all escalated after their camp was ambushed – a narrow victory. He pulled her to the privacy of the unattended laundry pavilion. Though he was inexperienced, he allowed instinct to take the lead. With her, he felt everything he’s been denied.
That became their new habit. Unbreakable for months. Their final push was met with heavy and preemptive resistance. He charged, breaking their front lines as he was made to do. Totally enthralled by the fight, it took him time to notice how her bullets didn’t ring past his ears. But it took no time for him to notice her absence once they’d swept the area. Usually, she came from her nest to gloat. That was when he felt fear – not as guns and knives fire and swing at him – but in the void of her presence.
He wishes all he could remember was the high-pitched laugh that left her smile, the bony feel of her body, her intoxicating scent and the warmth of her breath. But he can’t. Not without seeing the way the bullet had collapsed her face, her bloodshot and vacant eyes, her shattered skull embedded into the tree behind her.
His legs gave in when he saw her, having to crawl to reach her body – staining his skin and uniform crimson. His hand traced what was left of her cheek, fingers running through her tangled and imbrued hair before scooping her into his arms.
“Мне жаль... Ты не должен был быть один.”
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