Blaze

7. The Act of Dying

Jackie. Austin. I shouldn't do this in front of them.

But haven't they already seen worse? a voice replies in me. Don't they want this as much as you do?

I shouldn't do this.

The truth is cold and hard and physical as I assess the Bandits in front of me. Five against one (though only two sport clubs) doesn't make for the most gleaming odds—not even close. The tightness in my chest is the only confirmation I need: I can't best those eyes.

Do Austin and Jackie truly want this as much as I do? They shouldn't.

Doesn't change the fact that they do!

---

It's quick and it comes out of nowhere. For a moment, I'm struck by something that brings my lips tight together. Something that makes me shiver, despite the heat. Something that shrivels up my heart.

It takes me a minute, but I manage to pinpoint it.

I don't want to die.

Dying—growing cold and still—is never an attractive thought. Right now, it's a gut-clenching one. And Tim's body reminds me there doesn't have to be a line between thoughts and reality. I could die today.

No, I shouldn't do this.

Kill them kill them kill them.

But I want to. So badly.

They killed him they killed him they killed him!

My eyes find the blood-soaked club. Left, right, left, right. That beige patch—a part of Tim's scalp? Left, right, left, right. The Bandit handles it like an oversized, elastic pendulum; every time it completes an arc, my stomach flips, too.

The need to hurt them is physical, a burning in my gut. If I don't act on it, it'll consume me whole.

Kill them kill them—

"Cam," Austin says, eyes on the Bandits that are still deep in conversation. Jackie stops moving at the sound of his voice; she's pushed off of me and now supports her own weight.

He says, "You don't have to do this."

He's right (why does he have to be right?), of course. We've lost enough today.

Slowly, painfully, I master my emotion. Loosen my fists. Take a breath. Move my gaze away from the bloody club.

I can't do this.

I can't be angry now.

At least, not like I want to.

"I know," I answer. The voice inside my head is now a murmur. I ignore it, pulling my hands out of my pockets then flexing my needle-filled fingers. I don't let go of the knife, though. I don't think I'll ever want to.

"You don't have to do it," Austin repeats, turning to face me with an outstretched hand. I can't see his eyes. "I will."

---

Austin was five when he activated his first learning cube. Palm-sized and solar-powered, it emitted nothing more than a soothing buzz, followed by an electronic beeping as its screen activated. I remember how his face lit up with the fluorescent display—no shadows anywhere. How his eyes peeled back in wonder when the hologram shot forth, a sparkling imitation of reality.