Arthur Morgan x Reader

Forty-Six

It was strange.

The world seemed to fall silent all at once.

As soon as your fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the weapon, your heart stopped beating.

Deafening silence hit your ears.

All you managed to pick up was the echo of your own breath and the gushing sound of the blood that rushed through your veins.

Goosebumps covered your body.

With all your might, you yanked the gun to the side.

Struck by surprise and the sudden strength, he tried to move away.

But your other hand jumped forward to grab him by the neck.

A soft gasp escaped his lips.

He stumbled.

You put all your weight on him, managed to make him fall and jumped on top to wrap both hands around his throat to squeeze shut tightly.

All your mass pressed down on his chest, chasing all the last bit of air out his lungs.

The gun slipped from his twitching fingers.

Out of reflex, he grabbed you by the wrists to resist.

Baring his teeth, he started wrestling with you.

The hairs in the back of your neck stood up straight.

He was a heavy man with lots of strength.

But he was something you weren't.

He was drunk. Or at least under the influence.

The alcohol held his body hostage. He was barely able to coordinate his movements.

Sloppy and slow, he tried to fight his way free.

Deep red spots already appeared on his face. He was struggling for air.

A rush of adrenaline chased through your body.

All at once, it felt like your head was lighter, spinning with air.

Your grip around his neck tightened.

Your knuckles already felt sore, but he was still alive, his eyes still locked with yours.

As long as those eyes were on you, you wouldn't be able to rest.

There was this urge burning in the deepest depths of your guts.

You wanted to see the life be drained from him.

All those years of suffering and pain were his fault. Ever since you had arrived, he had made life unbearable.

It was him who had planted the seed of mistrust in father McLean. And the father had been the man to pass that hate on to the rest of town.

These two men were devils in the flesh.

You wanted them dead.

You needed them dead.

Your grip tightened.

Choking and coughing, he dug his nails into your flesh and tries to scratch his way out.

Powers seemed to leave him.

The alcohol had more power over his body than his own rotten mind.

Blood poured from the deep wounds that the uncut, chipped nails caused.

But you couldn't care less.

Your body was numb to the pain.

It was as if you were watching over yourself from a distant view, mind not connected to the vessel of flesh anymore.

Trembling and desperately gasping for air, he started kicking his feet in a last attempt to break free before the lack of oxygen took away his consciousness.

But you had him trapped under your weight, while your legs were chained to the sides of his body.

Realisation lit up inside his eyes. He knew that he was about to loose. And it scared him.

A movement tingled in the back of your head.

Your eyes jumped up to meet the priest.

He was standing barely two steps away from you.

His eyes were wide open while his breath seemed to be hoarse and panicked.

All the feelings and emotions were showing on his face at once.

But he was also shaking.

His hands were shaking just the way yours had after shooting that man for the very first time.

He had never killed someone.

He just hoped that the sight of the weapon was enough to make you retreat.

For a brief second, your grip around the neck loosened.

But as the sound of Karl's father catching his breath reached your ears, you made sure to squeeze your hands shut even harder.

Again, he gasped for air and started to choke on his own saliva.

"Do it.", you said with a soft chuckle.

Frightened, he took a step back.

"Leave that man!", he demanded.

His voice was weak, not at all hateful like it always had been when he had talked to you.

The proud man of god was gone.

Now, all that was left was a man who had no backbone.

Demonstrably, you let your nails sink into the throat of your victim.

Hot liquid nestled into the tips of your fingers.

You could feel the warmth of his flesh, how steaming hot the inside of a person was, while the blood poured from his neck like water from a fountain.

Father McLean still hesitated.

It seemed like he didn't know what to do.

You scared him.

For the first time in your life, you knew what it felt like to hold power over someone else.

"Do it!", you growled, teeth bared.

His breath was trembling.

"Y-you're the devil!", he gasped. "You'll end up in hell."

You had to laugh.

Almost hysterically, you started to laugh so loud that it made your lungs ache.

A groan escaped the man who was struggling under you.

His resistance weaker by the second while his breaths got shorter and the strength in his hands faded.

He was barely able to hold onto your wrists anymore.

"I don't fear hell...", you said and put the very last bit of your strength into your hands to squeeze the final spark of life out of the body. "You taught me how to survive in it."

The eyes of the man rolled back.

His head was read, but his lips blue as if he was freezing.

One last hoarse breath crossed his lips.

The grip around your wrists faded.

For a moment, you kept your hands right in place, but dared to ease the pressure.

Nothing moved underneath you anymore.

You weren't even able to feel the slightest breath.

"Huh...", mesmerised, you rose from the ground, eyes foxed onto your bloodstained hands. "That was... an easy sin."