The young girl's breathing got more and more ragged. Her first kill, her first job-was done. She dropped her Trigger, a gigantic scythe too many sizes larger than her, and dropped to her knees. '...Dad... Daddy...?'
The corpse in front of her was barely recognisable; its limbs were twisted, clothes all torn, neck cracked, silent...
And dead.
She had just killed her father.
The only person who cared about her, who lived her, who accepted her.
Well, at least, in the past. That didn't matter now, for one simple reason.
He was dead.
Dead. The uninvited word that she would never, ever forget.
Dead. Deprived of life. The state of not being alive.
Dead.
The young girl brought her hands to her face, rubbing at her tear-filled eyes. Her hands slowly trailed to her chest. Her father's last emotion was warm. She had felt it and would never forget it. It was sticky, but it wasn't disgusting. The warmth had resonated through her body; her pale hands were no longer ice-cold.
With shaking hands, she stuttered.
'Trigger... off.'
Her bloodstained trion clothes were switched away. Seeing all the blood go away made the young girl feel better; seeing too much blood made her feel nauseous. She shoved her Trigger into her coat pocket, and ran away as fast as possible, not dating to look back.
Little did she know that a young boy had been watching.