There Many Ways To Kill A Viper
In the quiet moments when silence surrounded him and only the thoughts in his head could be heard, Tyrone remembered how dying felt like.
He remembered the pain: the sudden pressure in his guts as the hilt of the rapier plunged into his back, jerking it all the way into his spine; the sharp, throbbing pang which gnawed through his stomach, spreading, burning like a slow-killing poison; the sound of his own blood dripping on the ground, going thump thump thump again then again.
But most of all, he remembered those violet eyes, staring at him once the pressure of the knife left his body as he collapsed to the rain-soaked ground splattered in scarlet, screeching like a rabid animal. The figure leered at him with cold detachment, not seeing him as a brother, a companion or a human but as a clump of mud on his over-shined shoes.
Indeed at times like this, Tyrone remembered how he died, but that never truly haunted him now. It was the emotions, consuming him like a wildfire devouring all those sweet memories filled with jolly laughter, shared grins and banter which now had become ashes of the past.
When he thought those sweet, sweet memories, only bitterness followed like an aftertaste one couldn’t wash away. He didn’t see Kalisz’s tender smile, but his smug expression as he ordered his men, ‘hold ‘im down, he shall not escape alive tonight.’
He didn’t see his warm gaze that once set aflame his icy heart, but his ruthless eyes as he unsheathed the rapier under the red moonlight and drove it inside him, tearing his skin from the inside.
He didn’t see Kalisz he once upon a time deemed a friend, but a monster dressed in human skin.
And it was at that quiet moment, as he drowned in his own pool of blood and darkness hovering at the edge of his vision, he realised the brotherhood they shared, the friendship they had—everything was a lie. He never saw him as an equal, only a stepping stone to his path of becoming a ranger.
But why? What sin had he committed whereby he warranted death?
He’d been a good friend, adhering to his volatile moods even when it stung him. He’d put him first in every aspect of his life, sacrificing every opportunity just to appease him. He did everything for him, even murdering his own flesh and blood… his mother, his father, his sister just to satisfy him. So why did he do this? Was it fun seeing him suffer? Did it swell up his wicked spirit? Did he receive a buzz of power when he bled on the ground, spluttering for air?
At the end of the day, it no longer mattered—no, he no longer mattered. Now, as he received a shot of whiskey from Mister Nyx in the empty bar, he only wished for one thing and one thing alone: Kalisz’s death.
Dying changed people and death in Tyrone’s humble opinion, had changed himself for the better.