The World Wants You Dead

Child of Mercy

Bare your teeth, boy, there is still much left in store. 

Now is time to wake.

Hush, don't complain, you brought this upon yourself. You chose your path and now you must see this through, despite the blood and heartache. Are you hurt? Can you stand? Good. On the ground, next to you.

Pick up the knife. 

...

Don't hesitate, boy, you didn't at the start. That knife saw you through to this point and it will see you through to the end. Pick it up.

There, that's better, isn't it? You feel safe now, don't you? Like your ghosts can't haunt you, like they can't take you.

Of course I know who they are, how hard did you hit your head? You've told me everything, boy. All of it. I know of your mother, of your father. What they did to keep you here, the sins they bore.

I know what happened back then, too.

...

Do you... do you truly not remember? It is where I found you, after it all happened. Is it not...

No, nevermind.

Perhaps the place itself will remind you better than my words alone. The door, yes that one. Leave through it, walk down the path. Through the woods, there is the church. You will recognize it when you see it.

Why do you hesitate? Open the door, you need not fear what the forest has to throw at you. The animals know better than to approach a monster.

Listen to the crunch of leaves, taste the scents autumn offers you. This land has been your home for your entire life. The chirping of the birds and distant sound of wolfsong is a symphony you once sung along to. The wind and leaves above would whisper secrets, you said, the river babbled like a newborn learning speech. The squirrel would tell his wife he loved her, and the stag would keep watch over his forest. 

But now all is silent.

...

You were an imaginative child, you know. Everything had a story, you said. You wanted to tell them all.

Yes, don't act surprised. You could've gone on to be a good writer, could have told your stories to more than those who lived in this town. They would've supported you, too. The baker and the baker's husband, the old lady who lived by the entrance and sometimes brought you and your family a pie she made, the man who smiled and waved each time he saw you, and you would smile and wave back. 

A shame what happened.

...

Don't stop walking, boy. It is nearing sunset, and I want you to reach the church before dark. I want you to be able to see what happened.

I want you to remember.

...

Your knuckles have turned white gripping that knife, perhaps you've already started to?

Your parents? Yes, that is correct. They are dead.

...

You're crying.

Why? You've never done this before. Why do you cry now? 

You must stop, stop before they hear you. The animals may stay clear from your path but they want nothing more than to hound your steps. They can't be far, but the church isn't either. You can make it, just.

Stop crying. 

Please.

Hold their picture close to your heart, remember the lullaby they would sing to you. Yes, that one.

Its coming back to you slowly, isn't it?

Come, now. You must get to safety. Dry your tears, we don't want them to sense your vulnerability.

...

That is a good question. I call you a monster, and yet help you all the same? I'm not sure I have an explanation for you. Perhaps it is because I am not... I am not them. I do not want your head on a pike, as much as your atrocities disgust me beyond words.

What atrocities? Do you not feel your sins crawl up your back? Do you not hear their cries in the back of your mind, those desperate echos pleading you to stop? I suppose you wouldn't, if you only now remembered what happened to your parents.

Still, your reaction confuses me. Never in the past have you shown remorse, for anyone. I wonder... did getting hit change you at all? 

Do you actually resemble something human?

I suppose we'll find out. It isn't too far, now. There, where the path turns to stone. The church is just up the hill. Then you will remember. 

You can sense it from here. The evil that corrupts and taints the land where something horrible happened. Listen to the crows, they celebrate and grow fat on the feast you've provided. Can you smell the air? Thick with malice, and the cobblestone below is stained by the blood spilt.

Blood you spilt. 

...

Here is the door. I suppose this is the part where I'm to tell you you can walk away, turn your back and try to escape from your past.

I'm afraid I will not give you that option.

No, I want you to listen. Can you hear it? The ocean waves on the cliffside below, the silenced voices of the church's choir whose song persists after death. However I am talking about the other sound, listen closer.

Everyone... everyone left alive, at least... it feels as if all their hearts are beating in synchronization, doesn't it? Everyone's pulses burning in their veins, and I recognize the feeling in my own, as well.

You know what it is, don't you, boy?

The world wants you dead.

Open the door, now. Look at the voices you've silenced. Feel their ghosts watch you in the dying light, rooting for your destruction. I wonder if your parents are watching, as well? Do they still love you, even after what you did to them? Or do they recognize that your heart doesn't beat with the rest of the world because you lack one entirely?

Anyone else would have struck you down while you were unconscious, you know that, right?

... 

Why didn't I? I've been asking myself the same question since I found you here, knife clutched in your red-stained hands. I feel... I feel as if I saw something soft within you, something... something better than what the world thinks you are.

That you're not a monster.

Hmm? Did you say something?

...

"I know how to fix this."

How to fix what? They're dead, you can't bring them ba-

What is that expression on your face? What are you doing, no, stop! Stop! Put the knife down!

Put the knife do-