Death of a Cutter

It broke.

Inside every man there is something more dear to him than life itself. A man may lose his head, his arm, his eyes, or even his life, but he is still recognizable as a man. But a man must never lose his soul, lest he become no better than the beasts he once hunted. A traitor to his beliefs, crushing that which makes up this inexplicable organ, is doomed to live the remainder of his days hollow, no longer living but merely undying. Men with broken souls are biological clockwork, rusting out their days until they break down into wet cogs and gears.

So cherished, and yet so fragile.

It happened while protecting the corrupt government from another rebellion. There was always good money in protecting bad people, and with such occurences happening every few months, it was easy money, too. I was the greatest of all cutters, the damned mercenaries hired by those totalitarian bastards. Having given myself over to the bloodlust, I tore through enemy lines, only to find myself facing a girl possessing no more than ten summers. She squealed, closing her eyes and pulling the crossbow's trigger.

I was faster.

As her head rolled on the ground before me, my legs no longer obeyed, collapsing beneath me. Tears flooded my eyes, and my throat cried out in utter agony, as I first felt the gnawing emptiness I had created with my own hands. I had sold my soul for power, and had drowned it in the blood of the innocent. I had crushed souls by the thousands, enraged by envy, desperately trying to fill a pit I had so eagerly dug. And what had I gained? Hangovers, disease-ridden women, a beautiful prison, debauchery and vice. Useless. All things that I had thrown away in due time.

After this realization, my hands shook. I could no longer touch a blade without retching. I was useless, and cast aside- poetic justice for me, I suppose. I fell to drink, trying to destroy everything I was. Maybe I could find peace in oblivion. I was merciless in my punishment, enjoying only my own misery. My crooked mind thought it noble to so torture a fallen spirit, ignoring the mean act for what it truly was.

Eventually, sick of it all, I drew my blade with shaking hands, and held it to my throat, ready to end it all and consign myself to the twilight. But that girl's face haunted me, mocking me in her fear, breaking me in her weakness. She had been far weaker than I, and yet more of a man than this cutter ever was.

The blade fell from my hands, a crimson droplet of blood running down its length. Sobs wracked my body, entertwining with the hysterical laughter that spewed forth from my lips. I laid there in the gutter, sewer water flowing around my blackened core, wondering why my life was still so precious to me, after years of trying to throw it away. I did not move- no, I was unable to move for days, the pangs of hunger gnawing away at what remained of me.

But then a man born in an alley, who had never even seen wealth before in any form, offered me bread. He had absolutely nothing he could afford to give. He had no reason to give. I had nothing to give back. But he gave it all the same.

The hunk of bread was black and hard.

It was the most beautiful thing I had ever tasted.

Tears streamed down my eyes as I savaged the bread like the wolf I had become. The gesture was so small, so insignificant, so perfect. He had saved me simply because he thought he should, and for the first time in years, I felt the warmth of salvation touch lightly upon my face. It was so delicate that I was afraid to look upon it, lest it flee. And yet I would not have traded it for all the pleasures of this world.

I may only hope that this somehow finds its way into the hands of a kindred soul, one who knows the price of all things but the value of nothing. Keep dear thy life, but dearer keep thy being. The unknown of death is infinitely preferable to that mean twilight, where those that hold nothing sacred may reside. And thus I consign to death a nameless cutter, a killer of men.

I may only hope that this might be enough to bring Marcus Tieresias back to life.

It broke.

The quill fell from its desk, dislodged by the rampant cheering of the floods of humanity filling the streets. As the first light of day touched the parchment, the ink dried on the final journal entry of a man. Just outside, thousands of greedy, mean, base, beautiful, loving, self-sacrificing people celebrated the dawning of their freedom.

Marcus Tieresias lay hunched against the wall, his left arm a stump, his right eye gouged, bone piercing through the skin of his left leg. He heard the cheering of the crowds faintly from his good ear, and chuckled softly to himself. Stabbing his blade into the ground and bracing himself, Marcus painfully pulled himself upwards into a sitting position. Through the fog of his fading eyesight, he saw the flag of the new government slowly rising against the backdrop of dawn. Finally happy, he closed his eyes, smiling ever so slightly as he dreamed of that black hunk of bread once more.

But maybe I can fix it.