Euthanasia

Chapter Sixteen- Contemplate a Killer

It was midnight. The palace was quiet. The first snow of the season blanketed the earth with a loud suffocation. Light snowflakes dusted the clouded sky, creating a natural darkness that filled the vacant space within the castle.
It was peaceful. A curtain fluttered from a partly open window, letting in a gently biting frost. A man stood in front of the glass; his hands placed loosely on the window's dusty sill. A warm blush danced between his nose and cheeks; his fingertips were red from the cold. He gazed at distant things. Wishful things. The sort of unbelievable, faraway things that would happen in well-developed dreams. The things that people could only imagine, beyond large oak forests, past pastel meadows, and over stormy seas. Those kinds of things. The kind that would never, ever, ever happen. The man knew this; however, he continued to gaze a futile future.
He sighed. His breath caught in the air, hanging in empty space for only a brief moment before dissipating altogether. He felt his lings fill with fridge air, then exhaled. He watched the puff of steam swirl and mix into the night once more. Fatigue plagued his wary body from endless sleepless night, but still his eyes wouldn’t let themselves close.
He pushed himself away from the window, tearing his gaze from the distant things that caught such hold of his attention. He looked behind him, his eyes searching the still room for something specific. The bed—taking up the space from the far back wall to the middle of the room—hosted a peacefully slumbering body. His eyes locked onto the figure, filled with fury and fear. His hands clenched at his sides, the knuckles turning white, fingernails digging into the palms, creating a set of half-circles.
Though the room was silent, his racing heart pounded loudly in his ears. The way his blood bubbled in his veins made him feel a sense of dread. The things he felt were hatred mixed with love coated with a thick layer of terror. His eyes flashed for a moment before he turned away, determined to put distance between the two.
As darkness slipped through the palace, the man weaved between shadows. Without much effort, he pulled open the door that closed them inside the bedroom. He slid secretly between the narrow opening he had created. It closed with an audible thud behind him, making him jump despite anticipating the noise. For a moment, he waited in silence. White noise prickled in the air, unsettling him. He expected, at any moment, for the door to swing open and he would have to come up with a clever lie to cover up what he was really doing. But that never had to happen.
Instead, he continued down the hall after the endless time he stood just behind the door, listening to the noise within the room. His eyes wondered the palace structure as he walked, hearing nothing but his own footsteps as the noise echoed into the hall.
He often found himself doing this, trying to find answers in the architecture. He tried to figure out why he felt so attached to the framework, the design. He would ask the lonely, hollow walls why they trapped him there and question what was so enchanting about the building's graceful construction. He would torture himself over the unanswered queries; the voice inside his head would scream at him for staying, begging him to escape, to just disappear.
But shackles locked him inside. He felt trapped, like a cooing dove captured within a locked cage, the key long beyond gone.
Walking through the palace halls, he remembered his capture pulling him along, hiding behind a blood-worn mask, shielding the world from his great embarrassment. Back then, he was tortured ne a heartless killer. Now he was tormented by a guilty one; the man suffered just as much as he did. That was the only difference.
Still, it was unfair to blame him.
But it was also unfair to make him stay living. Not just for the people in the kingdom, the continent, but also for himself too. The man who walked the frozen, quiet halls, saw the misery in the killer's eyes. He needed desperately to take that pain away.
After aimlessly wondering the halls, the man came before a door, carved with intense depictions of battle and war. He had seen the door before, plenty of times. He noticed the way people in the castle avoided it. Weapons crashed in front of his eyes as he gazed at the designs. A wooded shield cracked and splintered as a heavy double sided battle axe clanked its surface. The axe looked large, but its material was not so intimidating. The blade was only made from stone and the handle, wood wrapped in cloth to prevent splintering.
The event played before him as if it were really happening. He could hear the war rage around him from perishing screams to terror filled yelling. He saw armored villains shrouded in darkness and soldiers at a heavy disadvantage, even still, he thought, they fought with valor. Regal, the knights stood above the villain. The man created the story in his head, imaging the outcome of that gruesome battle. The villains would have been defeated of course, he thought.
The true story behind the carving though, wasn’t so spectacular. The man didn’t know this, of course, and he continued to believe something hopeful.
Looking at the carvings for so long overwhelmed him. Placing cold hands on the smooth metal, he clicked the door open. It creaked evenly, the sound creating loud echoes that reverberated through the silence. He hoped no one would notice the sound, although if someone did stop him, they wouldn’t do anything about it, he was sure.
Inside the room, the walls were filled with weapon racks. Every inch of space was taken up by various swords, daggers, and even bows with large quivers hosting dozens of arrows. The room was completely dark; a lantern was placed in the middle of the room, though it was unlit. The man stepped inside, lighting the lantern with a tiny match from the box left on the table.
The room became illuminated. The flint of the arrow reflected the light, catching the man's eyes. Leaving the lantern on the table, he picked up one of the arrows, holding it above his head, admiring its carved surface. The tip of the stone seemed sharp enough to easily pierce his skin, he avoided touching it as he turned it upside down to run a finger over the feathered fletching.
He carefully placed the arrow back into the quiver, making sure not to damage anything. He turned to look at the filled wall, his eyes dancing between weapons. Something caught his eye and interest quickly. An oddly shaped blade hung from the far wall, rusted and worn with age. The man was immediately disgusted by its appearance. It looked like a Halifax gibbet blade, used for public execution. He didn’t know why it would be there, when it was used, or why. His stomach turned as he looked at it.
Forcing himself away from it, he focused on something else. A small dagger sat upon the table in the room. The lanterns flame flickered as the man approached the table. The dagger was placed upright, the blade stuck into the table, and the handle pointed upward. He yanked it from the wood, pulling it free from the table's surface. He liked the look of the weapons, however small. The blade was wavy, unlike others he had seen which had straight edges, The handle was made from a black metal and the hilt was simply designed. He wondered for a moment who had forged all these weapons.
He flipped the dagger over in his hands, watching the blade glisten in the light. He found the sheath that the dagger slipped easily into. It was made from newly crafted blackened leather. It had sturdy straps which the man wrapped around his upper thigh, holding the sheath in place. He decided to keep the dagger, for no apparent reason really. He only liked the look of it and he decided he would keep it close, just in case anything happened.
Blowing out the lantern's flame, he left the room. Again, he was consumed by the darkness of the palace halls. As the sun began to climb back into the sky, he made it back to the room he shared with the man he felt a hatred mixed with love, coating with a thick layer of terror for. He slipped under the blankets escaping the cold, and slammed his eyes shut, not thinking about the blade at this thigh or the real reason why he stole it. Because he feared the man he thought he loved.
The bed was warm. But he imagined his heart would be coated with frigid coldness, backed by frost bite. He placed his hand on the blade without opening his eyes. The man next to him breathed quietly, slowing his quickly beating heart.
He wanted so badly to unsheathe the blade. He wanted to escape. He had too. Maybe he would. Unsheathe the blade, he thought. His heart rate picked up again. He opened his eyes, sitting up in the plush bed. He unsheathed it. The blade slipped easily into his hand. He looked at the warm body beside him. He breathed slowly, calmly. Too calm for a killer, he thought. He wanted to raise the blade high over his head. To plunge it down hard.
He raised it.
He felt his chest rise and fall and his breath panted from his chest. He was going to do it. Escape, he thought, do it.
The dagger fell into the sheets between them. He couldn’t do it. He swallowed hard; his throat felt like it was closing. Quickly he scrambled to pick up the weapon. He clipped it back into its sheath. He didn’t want anyone to find out about this. Pretending like nothing happened, he forced himself back down on the bed and tightly closed his eyes. His head pounded and ached from faintness.
He couldn’t process what had just happened properly. He kept his eyes slammed shut. He pretended to be fine, pretended to sleep, even though he knew he hadn't slept in weeks and wouldn’t be able to anytime soon.
He focused on the slow breathing beside him. Eventually he was able to calm his body enough to seem okay.