"You've got the knife?" I asked Daisy. She nodded, holding it shakingly in her hands.
"And you're sure about this?" She nodded again, confirming my question.
"Six hundred fifty three years is enough, I think," she said, holding the blade of the knife towards herself. "Three. Two. One." She drove the knife into her stomach, not even flinching as it entered her body. White glowing blood spilled from the wound, and she fell with a groan. "Good luck," were the last words that escaped her mouth.
How was it that I had become the thing that I had feared the most?
