Otmakla felt numb. She was wide awake, aggressive and quick-moving in the night scenery, but she felt detached. Her house was crumbling around her. Her family. It was of no consolation that so was the Romjid house. She couldn’t stop the thought that she’s destroying both her and Romial’s families in one stroke. It was too horrifying to contemplate deeply.
She went on. There was no plan, no way to guide her people or change their course after the ambush. She walked slowly towards the Romjid household. Around her people killed and died. A man came at her, moving in a defensive stance, holding a long knife. He looked inexperienced. She walked on, then suddenly rolled forward in angle, slightly distancing herself from the Romjid man, picking up a long fallen branch and hitting his hand in a smooth motion as she rose. He lost grip of his knife. She closed the distance, and he raised his hands to protect his chest and face. She stabbed him in the stomach and retreated quickly, continuing her walk as he fell to the ground crying. The stomach wound almost guaranteed a slow death. She preferred the neck, but couldn’t take the chance. He was crying like a young boy. He probably was her own age. Maybe Preki cried that way when the Romjid killed him. She wanted to cry herself, but felt so far from it all, in a numb shell. Read the rest of this entry »