Hunter's Knife

Chapter One

"I'm stuck in a coma, stuck in a never-ending sleep."

There is a light.

A small light, but it is light none the less. Right? Yes, of course. What else could it be other than light? A tiny orb, about the size of a cotton ball. Certainly no bigger than that. It was a very small light, but still a very bright one. He would take solace in that. Bright lights were good, weren't they?

But the light was fleeting. The light was fleeting, quickly fading. Would it diminish quickly? Or at all? Would it dare leave him alone in the darkness? He didn't want the darkness - he had had it too many times already, in what felt like a very short span of time. Everything was dark. Only that little orb was lighting his way.

Maybe the best thing to do would be to follow it. Right? Light could lead to something nice. Maybe it could lead him back home, or at least away from the lonely darkness.

He did follow the light. And sure enough, it slowly grew. He could feel some kind of warmth on his face, as if the light were coming from the sun. It wasn't. It wasn't bright enough for that. At least, he didn't think so. His mind was a little fuzzy and it was becoming difficult to properly gauge things. He was confused by the whole ordeal. He didn't understand why the light was there, or why he was following it. It was almost as if his mind had last his body. Like he wasn't in control anymore.

And, in a strange way, he was okay with not being in control. For once, it didn't feel like fate was resting in his hands. He didn't have to make any choices, so he wouldn't be letting anyone down. It was so blissful. So serene. 

No one had ever made his decisions. Life wasn't that easy for him. It was always him having to be the adult, and it felt nice not to have responsibilities resting on his shoulders. 

So, he let his body follow the light. After all, who knew? 

The light did end, eventually. Well, it didn't end, exactly. It just opened up a whole new scene. It was unfamiliar, but not uncomfortable. The scene was nice, actually. Really nice.

It was a nursery, it seemed. For a girl, most likely, judging by the pink on the crib. Stuffed animals filled the wrap around shelving, and clothes, little shirts and jumpers and dresses, filled the hangers in the closet. A girl, then.

Sure enough, there was a baby in the crib. Small, with a pink face to match the rest of the pink in the room. Her facial features were scrunched up. She had a mess of brown hair, and her eyes were not open, so he could not tell their shade. She was so small. Smaller than any of his own siblings had been, if he remembered correctly.

He walked closer, and he spoke to her the same way he would normally speak to a child. "Hello, there. How are you?"

The child did not move. She garbled nonsense, baby-talk. Maybe she needed something. Maybe she was making noise solely for the purpose of filling the silence. He could understand that.

A door, a white door with little butterfly decals on it, swung open, and in walked a man. A frightening man, with tight brown curls and a spindly yet muscular frame. His eyes were green, and they could be pretty. They could be so pretty, if they didn't look so dull and empty. They quite resembled those of a doll, actually. There didn't seem to be an ounce of humanity. 

He recognized this man. He couldn't put a name to the face, but he certainly recognized him. Those eyes seemed familiar - almost hauntingly so, in fact. He had seen this man before. Perhaps recently, or perhaps in another life. But he certainly knew him. He knew that much.

He had blood on his hands. 

It was underneath his fingernails, staining his cuticles. It was on his knuckles, his wrists. His palms and his slender fingers. It was deep, red blood. Some of it dripped off, while some of it was nothing but a stain. 

And the man, he walked right over and picked up the baby. He picked her up, and held her in close. She cooed at him, clutching onto a finger. The blood did not transfer onto her skin - her clean, pale skin. She was beautiful. The man was beautiful, in his own disturbing way. Everything about this man was unsettling.

Was this girl his child? 

Before any connection could be made, before any questions could be answered, the scene changed. No baby. No nursery. No spindly man with blood on him.

No, this was different. There was white stuff on the ground (snow, most likely) covering up gray stones. Some were lumps, some were flat plaques, some were in the shapes of crosses. 

All evidence pointed to a cemetery. 

The wind was blowing, rustling the tree branches. Surely it was winter, since all of the trees were bare and did not have leaves on them. The white fell from the sky - where there were dark, lingering clouds. Perhaps it would storm - that seemed fitting enough.

Standing near a stone were two young lads. Their faces were not visible from the angle at which they were standing. One was taller than the other. Nothing physical was visible - there were adorned in beanies that covered the hair, and bundled up in coats and gloves. They stood in front of a collection of stones, but they both appeared to be looking at one in particular. 

He decided, subconsciously, to get closer. His body carried him over to the two young lads, and he stood at the side of the taller one. Both had their faces turned, so even though he was up close and personal, he could not see. He wondered if he would recognize them. Maybe they were just strangers. Maybe, maybe, maybe...

"Damn shame," one said, the taller one. "Horrible thing. Terrible, awful thing."

The small one nodded his agreement. "He had everything going for him. He was a good kid. He didn't deserve that."

"What can you do?" the tall one asked, but it wasn't necessarily a question. It was more of a statement. "That poor thing. 'M sure everyone is absolutely gutted." He turned his head towards the smaller one. "What do you reckon? Think we ought to send 'em something?"

"Like what?" the small one scoffed. "Nothing will take that pain away. Last thing they wanted to do was bury 'em."

"Yes, of course," the tall one agreed with a tip of the head, stuffing his hands deep in his pockets. He withdrew a package of cigarettes, and lit one. He didn't smoke it. He stared at the lit end, and watched it burn away between his fingers. He had slender ones, too, but they were not the same fingers. "I just thought, for condolences, maybe. To know that someone was still missing 'em. Think they deserve at least that."

The small one shrugged. "Yes, maybe." He paused, and held out his own hand for a cigarette (which was handed to him with notable reluctance). "However, it could just resurface things. You know, reopen wounds that shouldn't be reopened. That sorta thing."

"Maybe," the tall one sighed, and dropped to his knees. The small one followed his lead. They both sniffled periodically - it was hard to tell whether it was because of tears or because of the cold. Perhaps both. "Terrible thing. Dreadful thing. Awful thing."

The small one nodded, and reached out one of his hands - wiping away some of the snow from the stone. It looked relatively new, as if it had just been placed recently. He could only make out one letter because of the snow.

L.