HUMAN SPIRIT

PROLOGUE

(A.N.: The prologue and the first chapter have been updated years after the original story was finished being written, and as such, use a different writing style. Some details have changed. Most notably, the original name of "William" was "Amadeus," and future uses of Amadeus have not yet been altered)

In the darkness she counted the beat of her restless heart, willing herself to be brave. The silver letter opener she held in her hand, molded to resemble a knife, felt weighty and capable for the current task. She was going nowhere fast, however. From where she stood in the shadows, hidden in the far back corner of the old man's study, she could see so much: the lethargic fish tank, the creaking overhead fan, even the old man himself, who sat disconcertingly still in his overstuffed leather chair. Bathed in the yellow glow of his desk lamp, the light curved round his skull as if he were a waxing moon, lit up the bronze patina of his nameplate to a near-blinding white. Other than that, the room was drenched in the warm shadow of post-midnight, the girl also hidden.

The name William was engraved on the nameplate, she observed, and she spaced apart the syllables in her head as she mulled it over. It was a name she knew would stay stuck with her moving forward, not a memory but a burden. Something that would wake her up in the middle of the night, knocking down her door, circling her head in muffled whispers. William. She had to remind herself this was for the greater good. It was a conscious effort, fighting for her own morality, pretending it even existed still.

She could only wonder whether the man could sense her, could feel her stir the air around him. Surely his eyes would flinch when the blade met his heart. Surely she'd hear the gasp of a man in pain, or a man who, shocked, would look his killer in the eye. Her heart stilled, her breathing became silent, and she stepped out of the shadows, into his frame of view. When she slowly walked around to the front of the desk, she stared down at the eyes that still refused to meet hers, waded in the unnatural silence of what should be his pleading. Even still, he wasn't doing anything, anything at all.

The truth was, she didn't know him well. But she knew he was a willing accessory to a terrible crime, a crime that not only affected one world, but two. It was the kind of act that didn't deserve forgiveness, resolving only with a final breath choked out through desperate, frozen lips, and with it she would be vindicated

There was no struggle to the final act. She reached her hand across the table and carefully slipped the letter opener into the thick of his chest without issue. It was an unceremonious exchange, and for each moment she held the metal fast in his heart, the more could she feel a condemnation build around her beyond her control. It couldn't be helped, of course. No one could be helped. To be saddled with pure, unbridled sin was an inevitable milestone for everyone to endure, and this was her time to meet it. It was the act she knew would unravel her, cell by cell, until her own eventual passing

The man didn't give her the staggered exhale she wanted, the feeling of vindication less than sweet. The world around her reacted with fanfare so insignificant it was like nothing had happened at all: the room kept still, the spindly trees that watched from the window merely trembled. Knife now clutched in her retracted hand, she looked at the crimson tip of the small weapon and wondered how the hand the wielded it could stay so clean, so visibly unburdened. She bristled at the stark contrast and stepped back. 

This was no place for her to stay.

The letter opener fell to the floor. A door creaked open, then shut, and she was gone again.