N o t h i n g

The first time was nothing, you've always pronounced.

It's never affected you, even an ounce.

The blood on your hands was the blood of a man

Who was stealing and cheating and threatening your clan.

You laugh every time someone mentions the kill,

Which isn't so often, they know how you feel.

You go to your room and you're slamming the door

And you rub at your eyes and you drop to the floor.

And if you don't care, why can't you seem to breathe?

And you've locked the door tight and you clutch at the key.

Because if you don't care, why's your throat closing tight?

And there's nothing but darkness, no sprinkle of light.

You remember the feeling, every time that you kill.

The light in his eyes, because it haunts you still.

The thrust that your brothers could parry - so light,

That man couldn't stop you, he fell in the fight.

You didn't expect it, you just couldn't breath

But he was the last and you sank you your knees.

You stared at your hands, stained a vivid, cold, red

And you realize, at last, that the man there is dead.

You lean over, gripping the floor with your hands.

You can feel the blood sticking to stones and to sand.

And all of a sudden, you feel very sick

And you lean over, retching across the blood slick.

You grimace and wrap your arms across your plastron

And wonder how everything could have gone damn wrong.

You stay there for hours, alone in the dark,

You're trembling and shaking until something sparks-

You've got to get out, they're coming for you.

You stumble and fall but get out of the gloom

And into the sewers, which smell rank and like meth

But anything's better than the fresh smell of death.

And now you're thinking about each thing you do,

He lived and he laughed and he cried sometimes too.

And the knot in your chest doesn't get any worse

And you wonder, just briefly, how much did it hurt?

The first time was nothing, you've always pronounced.

It's never affected you, even an ounce.

The blood on your hands was the blood of a man

Who died for his wife and his child and his clan.

Basically, second person, narrative on Raphael's first kill.

What did you think?