memory share.

[doped]

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[doped]

You enter the pen. It's dark, but the stink is there — unwashed man, decomposed food, vomit, excrement. Even in low light Coach looks like half a corpse already, and while no one is here to witness it, you let horror wash over your face, disbelief this was the man who used to bow his head in prayer with Laura Lee, who did stretches with the team at early morning practice, who talked about boys with you down by the river. He's dirty, from his face down to his legs — leg. Nothing about him isn't caked in dirt, and he's lost weight since he started trying to starve himself to death, willowy and fragile in a way that he's never looked before. He startles when you enter, afraid.

But he sees you, and you see him, and there's understanding in that look. Calm washes over his expression, and then he sees the knife, and calm is replaced with awe, like something holy was just witnessed. And then — gratitude.

Gratitude?

He asked you to do it, earlier. He asked you everyday since the trial that determined his fate please, just kill me, just get it done, if you've already decided, then put me out of my misery. Here you are, doing this. He scrambles, fish out of water-esque, onto his back, elongating his throat.

— Please.

It's sick, that a man should have to beg you to kill him. This man, who survived a plane crash and losing a leg, who has a guy who loves him waiting at home, who isn't dying because we're hungry or merciful or surviving. They decided. They determined he should die — you, who never agreed, are here to fulfill that ruling. The queen swings the sword. Your hands are shaking. You loved him — he was good, and you loved him, and he actually gave a shit about you, and look at him now, look at what your love did. He doesn't even flinch when you press the knife to his throat. He wants it. He's not crying, not like you, face contorting in the thralls of pain that seize you — you can't believe you're doing this, that you have to be the one to follow through, that this is your responsibility.

He reaches up, and steadies your hands. Holds them. You think about your father, taking the gun from your hands, it's perfectly safe to keep guns in the house, if your daughter is too stupid to know how to use it. He sits up, relief in his face.

— Thank you.

Please, you want to say. Please shut the fuck up. Don't thank me for killing you. Don't act like this is kind. You use whatever strength you have to plunge the knife point into his heart like killing a stag, his bloody gasp swallowed up by your choking sob, hands flat against his chest, watching the life bleed out of him. It's quickly done, as quick as it started. You stay until the sunrises, watching his chest and the knife sticking out of it, waiting for it to rise again. Knowing it won't.

Acceptance. Nat, the Hunter. Nat, the Queen. Nat, the Murderer.