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Chapter one, Bless the liars who were killed ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
How do you kill somebody?
Someone might say it is with a sharp knife or with the bullet fired by a loaded gun. Others will swear only by their own hands. Despite the weapon or closure, a kill remains the death of something that once was. The roughness executed from its action brings nothing but a ruthless layer around their vital organs. It slashes and rips their heart while the flowing blood ties it back together, leaving pieces shattered beyond repair. There are thousand ways to tear someone apart. Septimus Crain has memorized them by heart. He knows how to make someone bleed eternally, he knows the way to the kill.
There is only one question he must ask: how do you kill someone? And he must get the answer every time. Without mistakes, without any doubt.
He was seven years old when someone first asked him that exact question, and with a confused smile he answered: you kill them, simple as that. His father had laughed at his reply, show me, he had said with a vicious smile. And with pride, his son replicated the murder he had seen on the screen picturing the games. It was at this exact moment that he knew his son had the potential to be something greater than himself. It was moments like this, when young Septimus would stare at murders without blinking that made his father proud. Not when he was teaching his younger sister to read or when he taught her write, but when violence was seen in his eyes.
Every time he thinks of the past, Septimus shakes his head. Nothing good ever comes out of the hungry guilt scavenging the past. It makes him sick to the bones. Perhaps it doesn't help that he hasn't seen the sun in weeks or even the sky. The last time his skin had met fresh air, his hands were covered in dirt as he was shoveling to build the grave of someone he once knew. The sun was burning against his skin, sweat was covering every inch of his body while the smell of death reeked over the woods. The worst part was Septimus couldn't even smell it anymore. It wasn't making his lips frown or making his eyes cry. It was almost a fragrance that smelt like a foreign home.
That is the worst part, deaths are all insignificant.
So to answer the question, Septimus believes there is no right way to kill someone. No right way to be forgiven.
In front of him, the view is shortened by the mirror that stands tall in the room. It reflects almost every corner of the room he is in. It isn't the size of the mirror that allows him to see the mattress on the floor or the wardrobe the size of a cabinet. It is rather the size of the room. 23 steps. It takes him twenty-three steps to walk along the walls of the room.
Septimus looks at his own reflection in the mirror and he almost gets sick. One of is his eyes is a reddish color, infected in a fight he had won days prior. Even the harsh bruises around his neck were still present. It almost makes him fling as he takes a closer look. His scars were a dark shade of blue turning yellow. The deep cut on his neck was still visible, only this time, it was slowly starting to heal.
