The Distant Affair
You are holding the blade, and the blood is not yours, it is thick and black and smells of copper and old earth, and the thing that was once a man is now only a wet, heaving mass on the cobblestones of the market square, and you are the only one standing, the only one breathing, the only one with eyes that still hold the shape of a human being. The crowd is not a crowd, it is a wall of faces, a...
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