The handle of my knife hit the target with a soft thunk, then fell to the floor. Again. I frowned. There was no point in working a knife if I could not land a strike with the sharp end. I might as well be throwing stones. Or just lie down and wait to die.
Somewhere Furfur growled, intolerant of my angst, but he said nothing. But he was suffering too. I felt it in the bond between us, that slippery, inky-dark pain. It was all because of me and the choice I made.
I walked up to the target, picked up the knife, returned to the throwing line. Took a deep breath, tried to turn off my thoughts, flung the small bronze knife. My aim was decent, but I could not get the spin right. Again the handle hit the target, not the blade. The sounds of my failure (a soft thunk, a quiet clatter) the hung heavy in the open-air training pavilion. Outside, frozen trees held up the grey sky. My breath came slow and hot, a curtain of fog I wanted to disappear in.
I just needed to focus. My mind was elsewhere, and I knew it. I was thinking about my family sailing away and leaving me behind. I was thinking about my soul, and how fucked up it was that it would hurt more to be taken from this landscape than it would to be taken from my family.
I was thinking about how selfish and weak I was. And--
I was thinking of how I did not truly know the difference between love and rage, for when my mother looked at me I saw both in her eyes.
I threw the knife again. This time it missed the target completely. “Dang it.” At that time in my life I only swore in private. I had not yet gotten tired of being good. Or at least appearing it. I stomped up to the target, picked up the knife, returned to the throwing line. Tried again and again. I would stay there until I did it right.
@Darkrise for whomever you wish <3
