Empty of All But This



As the blade slashes across Connor’s throat, the eyes he never stops staring into aren’t filled with shock.

That, he could understand.

They’re not filled with anger either; grief’s burned that away, leaving them dully scarred.

There’s no resignation; his son’s a fighter born and bred after all and knows it’s not over until –

Hatred? No. He wishes there was. It’s akin to love, right?

That’s not there either.

No relief. No acceptance. No fear. No pain; his hand’s mercifully fast. No curiosity about what’s to come.

The father will kill the son.

‘Told you so’, say Connor’s triumphant eyes.



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