Luminous

122 - Savior (3/3)

Dawn broke. Birds sang. Wind blew. Leaves flutter. Time flowed on, heeding not, caring not. Regardless how much one struggled and strove, one's existence meant naught in the grand scheme of being but pain and suffering.

He couldn't save anyone. He couldn't even save himself.

What was the purpose, then, in enduring? If all life had left to offer was to wallow in his uselessness? His waste of resources?

Fatigue shielded him for now. Dulling his senses, drowning out torturous thoughts, delaying the permanence of truth. But when his strength returned and his mind cleared, how much would it hurt? Like a stake driven through his heart, yet he couldn't die? The wisest and only escape was death. In death, he would no longer feel, no longer know, but how to die with no laudanum to quietly ease him into eternal sleep?

His limbs lay dead and heavy as lead, but at least his eyes could still roll. Morning light lit his little cabin gray, reflecting from his mirror to lay upon the bundles of firewood.

He could perhaps nudge the mirror so it fell on its face and shatter into a dozen pieces. Hopefully one would be just the right size to fit in his palm, but would it be sharp enough for a quick, painless cut? Would he be brave enough to muster the force needed to saw through his own flesh and split open his vein? How long must he watch his blood flowing to puddle around him, feel it drenching his clothes? What if he changed his mind during the wait, then realize there was no turning back?

There must be a quicker, more effortless way. Quick as an impulse, too quick for fear and instinct to react. His eyes slid to the door. There was a little pond outside, but getting up and crawling there was such a bother. Water must be ice-cold, too. Drowning took time. He would soon try to swim free of Fyr's clutches. Perhaps he would succeed, perhaps he wouldn't, but either way he would be scared.

His eyes strayed next to the firewood. Thick ropes bound them that he'd need to untie. Then, he'd need to get up, fetch his chair, reach for the beam...

Even dying was a hassle. Yet, there was nothing else to occupy him but his thoughts, and he must waylay them at all costs. He'd just do what little he felt like for now.

He tugged on the end of the rope until the stack of wood tumbled onto the floorboards, splintered noisily into a dozen split logs. Caring not, he dragged the length of twine onto his chest. He'd make that simple noose used for trapping game, one that tightened with pull. Despite his battalion of dogs, he'd never much cared for hunting, but what was the hurry?

Grudgingly, he raised his head so he could slide one end of the rope under his nape, then raised both to his bleary eyes. Hopefully this would be long enough—it would vex him greatly to have to pull apart another bundle of wood.

The rope was coarse and stubborn, slipping from his sweaty fingers, springing undone as he bent it into a loop. What next? Under? Over? Around? How many rounds until it would hold? Or would it snap and he'd end up breaking his face and kneecaps on the floor?

Suits you right for never bothering to attend a hanging for once in your short, miserable life.

He grunted and growled. The door banged open, and morning light blinded him. Two shadows wavered in the blazing white, inexplicably familiar. Good, they could help him figure this out. Goodly Freda, he was so pathetic he even needed help dying—

The quivering silhouettes settled into crisp curves and bright colors. Man and woman draped in flowing cloaks. The woman's hood fell to reveal dark brown hair. She froze, then dove like a hawk with an earsplitting scream to match—

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO—!"

Fingers like burning bones pried the rope from his hands, tugged it free from around his neck. Before he could even think to scold her for intervening, she slapped him senseless across the cheek.