FACELESS

Chapter Nine

He should be dead. He almost did die, if memory served him right; his vision tunneling, his throat burning and eyes stinging with tears. Forcing himself to hold his breath after the miraculous snapping of wood that made everyone believe it was his neck that broke, not a wooden board. And, right when he thought he'd be lost for good, finding himself spiraling further and further down into the darkness that'd consumed his vision, the rope around his neck was cut loose, dropping him to the ground.

He'd been relieved at first, realizing he was free—but the platform collapsing on top of him had just about killed his mood.

So why am I alive...?

Lying in the middle of debris and bodies, Ynk cracks his eyes open only to squeeze them closed again, the sunlight blinding compared to the bag that'd trapped him in darkness moments before. He's not sure where it is—probably knocked off or something similar when the gallows collapsed—though he can't say he's missing it.

Coughing, Ynk shifts his leg and lets out a hiss, relaxing back on the concrete again. His knee screams at him, the boy feeling each individual crack along its surface. Broken, beyond a doubt. And that's not even the worst part, his head spinning out of control and blood bubbling up into his mouth. His side flares, and he remembers that he landed on his side when he fell.

Might need a doctor, he thinks. I can't just walk around like this—can I?

Around him, people begin to stir, either from the groans of the wounded or from the fact that they can't lie around all day, he doesn't know, nor does he care. He hears them get up all around him, shifting through the broken wood and dead to search for survivors.

And then he hears them.

"That him?" A voice questions above him, Ynk falling still the moment he hears it. He relaxes his face despite the pain, playing the part of a dead man.

"You really can't tell?"

A boot prods at his broken ribs, and Ynk bites his tongue, his eyebrow twitching. Stop it, he thinks, stop it, stop it, stop it—

The two men don't catch his change of expression, nor do they see his jaw slacken when they release the pressure on his ribs. "Kid's dead," one of them announces, and as Ynk allows himself to be rolled over and inspected, he hears some begin to fume at the news.

"Which one?"

"The Verdidan one."

"You sure?"

"He can't be—"

"Obviously, he would be."

"But we tried so hard—"

Ynk has to keep his eyes staring straight to avoid moving his eyelids. They care, he realizes. They actually care! It worked! I did it—it actually worked!

His victory is short-lived, however, as more voices join the conversation.

"Found another body."

"Oh, God, Claire, no—"

"We need a doctor over here!"

And just like that, Ynk's heart sinks to his shoes. Yes, they care—and because they care, they all experience a heartache far beyond anything they can dream of, as they've never had to experience it before.

The grief of losing a loved one.

And it's all his fault, because he made them care.

Click!