Talons

[Slam]

((Nate Turner continued from Darkness in the Light))

He stood in the hallway, water long turned foul pooled around his feet.

Jon was lying there. It had only been minutes since the screams had stopped, since whoever had killed Jon had finished. Nate recognised him, but only barely.

They weren't friends, just in the same grade. Nate wasn't even sure what his name was, but he recognised him.

So what? He recognised everybody. Everybody was dead by now.

He stood there. He stared, hands clenched, lump in throat, every unpleasant feeling that he could feel was right there. There was no other way to feel.

Jon was dead. He'd listened, hid, done nothing, as Jon had died, as someone had killed Jon. He couldn't have done anything, but he hadn't even tried.

He was worthless.

He felt his throat shortening, trying to swallow that awful lump. He was shaking.

He could see it: the machete, stuck out of Jon's body, completely wrong. Of all the brutality, plainly visible on Jon's corpse, it was the most offensive. The most sickening.

This was what they wanted. This was what everyone wanted. Someone had wanted to do this to Jon. Someone had wanted to do it to Nate. Someone else would try to do it to Nate.

The machete said it all:

This was the world he was in. It was this, or die.

He didn't want this.

But he didn't want to die.

He took a step forward. He had to stop. Wanted to stop. He couldn't.

"You knew Alvaro, you knew what kind of guy he was like. But now he's killing people. It's the same with Nancy, she was always really nice too."

Another step forward. He was close enough now. Jon was close enough.

"So..."

He reached out.

He gripped the handle of the machete, with both hands.

"What if that happens to me?"

((Nate Turner continued in Amen))