When Bad Meets Worse

Chapter 8

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When I was training for the Games, I was taught how to tolerate pain. Grit my teeth and withstand it. Overcome it and show no emotion. Fear of pain would only be a hindrance.

But as I stood there with the smoking barrel of my firearm pointed at the floor, I felt a different kind of pain. The moment I delt the final blow, all I could feel at that moment was pain. Pain for the girl. Pain for her family. Pain for myself. She laid in front of me, glassy eyes boring through me. Even in death she managed to shoot me a haunting glare, guaranteeing I would have sleepless nights over it. I stared back, face void of any emotion. A fast-growing pool of dark blood surrounded her slight frame, staining her clothes and causing her hair to be matted with the thick coppery liquid.

She died alone. No-one there to hold her hand. No-one there to say goodbye. This young Jaid lost her life in the short span of a few minutes. It could have ended alternatively, if she were to act differently, with me down there instead, cold as stone. Dead. Gone.

I tried to dispose of these morbid thoughts.

I will not be so naive as to say that she should not be pitied. But there would be no reason to mourn her death. There are no "what if"s. She did what she did and she paid for it. She's gone now, and she will remain like that. Forever.

I was forewarned about how all this would affect my mental wellbeing, but nothing could prepare me for this onslaught of psychological torture. My heart felt heavy when I made my first kill. I tried telling that I had to do what I had to do, and killing was inevitable if I wanted to survive. Still, it was almost impossible to ignore the fact that I had taken away another human being's life.

If you do not take into consideration my unique upbringing, I could be counted as an innocent civilian. But that changed. Changed by a simple action. A simple action that can never be erased. Never in a million years. It will be etched onto my soul, until the day I die.

No amount of training or counseling could ever prepare me for the aftermath of murdering someone. The weight of responsibility, guilt, sadness. What really revolted me was that underneath all these weaknesses, was a sense of satisfaction. Satisfied and relieved that I was one step closer to accomplishing my mission - to get out of that hellhole alive.

All these conflicting emotions was too much for one person to bear, and though I tried to remain apathetic, my body gave in and crumbled. I found myself on my knees in front of my victim. My pistol had left my hand when I descended and it now laid on the floor. Overwhelmed by this deep experience, I was frozen. Physically present but mind in a complete mess; it refused to function.

I struggled to register my actions as the Jaid's mounting amount of blood crept towards me, threatening to stain my clothes; stain my soul with the cold blooded murder, to remind me repeatedly of my actions.

I finally regained enough of my composure to hear someone calling. The voice was muffled, though. Distorted. Like i was underwater. I didn't know how long I sat there, staring blankly back into the eyes of a corpse. It wasn't until I felt my teeth rattled in my skull that I tore my gaze away from the lifeless body.

I managed to croak out a dazed "What?" before I found myself getting to my feet shakily with assistance from Jorgen.

I almost forgot Jorgen was here. I was too busy wallowing in self pity, I guess. I looked into Jorgen's violently violet irises and saw concern, sympathy and worry. Concern for our situation, sympathy for my internal conflict, and worry for the dead look in my eyes.

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Jorgen's POV

Sersha broke down, but didn't cry. She was a strong person, but she was still human. I knew what she was going through. I also knew that she had to make her first kill on her own, and deal with the stress on her own. She has to know; she has to get familiar with that feeling.