Truth be told, Korbin didn't know himself what he was going to do. All he knew was that he felt chased, hounded, pushed and prodded and disrespected. All he wanted was to be left alone, but people kept appearing before him. Asking questions he had no answers for, unable to answer his own, demanding and weedling him to do and give things he didn't have.
"I don't want to be alive in a world without Weaver either," he retorted. "I don't know what kind of things you consider to be good enough to suffer for, but mine are all gone. I can never hug my mother again. Never speak to my father. My brother will never mess up my hair again, and my sister will never laugh so I can hear it. That was all I wanted. All I ever needed. Everything else was just a means to get by."
Some of the things were nice, some enough to make him laugh, or feel good for a while. Girls kissed and forgotten, songs learned and played, tales told and it had all been for his family. All for them.
The scrape of steel on grindstone filled the silence. The next time Korbin tried the edge, the blade was sharp. Putting away the tool, he twirled the knife between his fingers, deft and skilled. It was a tool he had used every day of his life. He could use it to kill prey for food, to skin it, butcher it, prepare the hides and make clothes, tools, carve the bones and cut the meat for dinner. He could carve crude instruments or throw it at an approaching enemy, cut herbs or put it against his throat, or maybe to the slender neck of his stalker.
"There is no point. Can't you see? I can stop drinking whenever I want, but it wouldn't change anything. All I would have is more of the pain, more of this empty meaningless bullshit of an existence where my loved ones are gone and all I want is to sleep. And even that is beyond me without fucking drugs."
He sure as hell wouldn't try that again.
Slowly, absently, Korbin pushed the tip of the blade into the meat of his palm. It hurt, but he kept going until a bright stream of red flowed out past the steel. Only then did he stop, with gritted teeth, breathing into the pain.
It didn't help. Korbin never thought it would, but now he had tried and... no. It really didn't do anything for him. It was just more pain.
"I don't want to be alive in a world without Weaver either," he retorted. "I don't know what kind of things you consider to be good enough to suffer for, but mine are all gone. I can never hug my mother again. Never speak to my father. My brother will never mess up my hair again, and my sister will never laugh so I can hear it. That was all I wanted. All I ever needed. Everything else was just a means to get by."
Some of the things were nice, some enough to make him laugh, or feel good for a while. Girls kissed and forgotten, songs learned and played, tales told and it had all been for his family. All for them.
The scrape of steel on grindstone filled the silence. The next time Korbin tried the edge, the blade was sharp. Putting away the tool, he twirled the knife between his fingers, deft and skilled. It was a tool he had used every day of his life. He could use it to kill prey for food, to skin it, butcher it, prepare the hides and make clothes, tools, carve the bones and cut the meat for dinner. He could carve crude instruments or throw it at an approaching enemy, cut herbs or put it against his throat, or maybe to the slender neck of his stalker.
"There is no point. Can't you see? I can stop drinking whenever I want, but it wouldn't change anything. All I would have is more of the pain, more of this empty meaningless bullshit of an existence where my loved ones are gone and all I want is to sleep. And even that is beyond me without fucking drugs."
He sure as hell wouldn't try that again.
Slowly, absently, Korbin pushed the tip of the blade into the meat of his palm. It hurt, but he kept going until a bright stream of red flowed out past the steel. Only then did he stop, with gritted teeth, breathing into the pain.
It didn't help. Korbin never thought it would, but now he had tried and... no. It really didn't do anything for him. It was just more pain.
In loving memory of when I gave a shit
KORBIN
HALE
HALE
