The Impressionist

She stared into the broken mirror. Why? She thought. Why me? Blood trickled down her arm from a gash in her hand. She crouched down to pick up the shards of glass and glanced into the cloudy reflection. Surprisingly, no tear trails marked her face. She frowned. The folds of the tent swayed in the wind.

A gunshot echoed in the distance, and she started. The girl started, dropping the glass. Her black combat boots were caked with dust, mud, and blood. A man burst through the side of the tent. A horrible ripping sound reached her ears. He moved towards her, brandishing a knife. She moved with lethal grace, pulling out a dagger.

The girl's silver dagger flashed. The man crumpled to the ground, his throat slit. He made a strangled gurgling sound. Blood leaked from the corners of his mouth. He gagged, vomiting blood on the canvas floor of the tent. The girl knelt gently next to him. Remorse filled her doe shaped, soft grey eyes.

She leaned forward slowly and pressed her lips to his forehead. She pulled back, tucking her legs under her.

"I'm sorry," She whispered.

The girl stared down at the man in his final moments, as he choked to death on his own blood.

She sat forward and swiped her finger across his neck. Number six hundred and forty three. She painted the number on his face with blood. And again, she asked the question that no one could answer.

Why me?