The War Within
Let them come. Let me die.
The unwanted thought came and Etienne Boucher sucked in air. A jolt of adrenaline heightened his senses as his vision darkened. He smelled wet earth, heard pounding rain. He felt cold meat, smelled blood. His vision cleared and he saw the knife. He focused on the scars on his arms, shining silver against his bluish skin. He slowed his breathing and put his knife down. He wiped his hands on his apron. They were cold from handling an icy pig. He spent his day with bloody carcasses. Too much blood. He shook his head.