It's not right — no one has ever cared what you think about in terms of morality, but it isn't right, and the wrongness is a disease, some sickness that doesn't go away no matter how long you lay on your side and watch the same cockroach crawl over the same stick, tears drowning your eyes but never quite slipping. Not right. Of course, what does it matter when everything is so, so wrong? Out here, in the wilderness. Deep here, in your brain. You'd kill one of these girls you love so much for a cigarette. Just one.
You make the choice. It's not right either, but it's what you have to give. You get up, and head to the pen where they're keeping him, snagging a butcher's blade on the way there. Someone walks in front of you, and your heart ricochets up into your throat — but it's Travis, staring at you with ever present disappointment, eyes locking onto the knife in your hand. You don't breathe out a sigh of relief, but you do relax, a little.
— It's you.
— Why do you have that knife?
— Just go back to bed.
— No I ... I can't let you do this.
— You don't have to be here. To be a part of this. Just go somewhere else.
— Nat, please don't do this. You know they won't forgive you.
— I don't care. You saw him. I have to do this if nobody else will.
— Okay. I'll keep an eye out for anyone. But hurry — sun's about to rise.
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.
Predictably, the girls aren't happy. Gen shoves you to the ground, Misty shrieks what did you do?, Melissa tells you to shut the fuck up. But it was right, you say, again and again. It was the right thing to do. And honestly? The hate is palpable, and the hate is healing. Vanessa, in your face — you do not get to make that decision for all of us. It builds. They actually think Coach was the way out, because Akilah had some vision, and that serves as fact, here and now, where logic dissipates. That's fine. You hope, pray, think the crescendo will be your own death. Tai mentions another trial. Maybe the girls will free you from this place, from the blood caked on your hands from someone you loved, from all these horrible choices you've had to make.
Shauna's voice, instead. You think you'll be free, Nat? You'll never escape us.
— No more trials. She's obviously guilty, she just confessed. We put her in charge, and instead of doing what was right for us, she did what she wanted to do. I think it's obvious what happens now.
Death, please. You get Coach then, in that moment — yes, please, thank you.
Lottie speaks up,
— Shauna will lead us.
Dead silence, everyone's discontent palpable. Shauna again.
— I get that you guys are angry, but we are still a team, and we can't let this break us. When people die out here, we honor them. So tonight, we'll honor Coach Scott, too. We'll give the Wilderness what It wants.
And what about me? Misty, full of angry vengeance —
— What about Natalie? She's just going to get away with it?
Shauna pauses, then laughs to herself. She has this look in her eyes that isn't even smug, or nasty. It's just cruel.
It's not the first dead body you've seen, though you never really get used to it — you keep your expression as impassive as you can, looking at the pale pallor of Coach's corpse, because the Butcher is there, wearing the face of Shauna Shipman. Not letting her know how badly this affects you is the only armor you have. You pick the heart necklace off Coach's throat, jaw clenching, ignoring a shiver that races through you at how cold he feels. Dead flesh is so unsettling, it makes your skin crawl.
— You'll want to start with the joint.
Every muscle in your face twitches. Shauna's expression is almost — kindly, for once. Like two girls at a butchery, coming together over mutual distaste for the act that no one else is going to do. You blink at her, mouth tugging downward.
— Helps me to cover my eyes, but I know what I'm doing.
You don't say anything. She's the one making you do this — you fucking hate her for it, and she knows you hate her, and every olive branch isn't so much as batted away as it is ignored, like you can't see it, like it isn't even there. Your heart is too wounded and tired and traumatized to feel angry anymore. Shauna sighs and looks around, finding a bloody rag and covering Coach's face. It's almost worse, like you're two girls chopping meat — meat without a face, without a name. Meat you didn't love, meat who wasn't kind to you. Meat you didn't murder with one plunge of a knife. It should upset you, shouldn't it? You shouldn't take the easy way out. And yet — you don't move the cloth. You can't look at him anymore.
Shauna pulls her knife out of its sheath and passes it to you, handle first. Your fingers brush when you accept it, darkly grim over this thing that must happen, because Shauna said so, because Shauna is the new queen, long may she reign.. You don't think about stabbing her with it, though you think, probably, that you should.
But that's Shauna. The fastest girl on the field. One time she held your hair for you when you OD'd in the girl's locker room, because you didn't want your gym teacher to find out and tell your mom. She bought you orange juice. She signed your yearbook last year. Shauna isn't killing you because she hates you — she's teaching you a lesson.
You're sick of death and blood and pain. You pop the knife into Coach's shoulder socket anyway, because the meat isn't going to prepare itself, and Shauna doesn't care if you cry. She doesn't cry when she cuts, so neither do you.
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