Long time passes before the creature finally opens its eyes. His now ravaged hand lies in his lap, smeared redness peeking bast black leather, telling of what happened earlier.
He looks at it with disgust for a moment, seemingly very distant to the memory of what he did.
At last, it looks like he can't handle the curiosity, he struggles not to wince at the sharp pains, like scalpels digging through flesh and tendons, as he pulls the glove off.
Blood, flesh, strings of tendon visible. Some dangle out of the crescent-shaped puncture-and-tear wound.
He looks at it, wide-eyed, horrified, and then his eyes settle for a more calm and knowing look.
There are numerous scars of similar appearance all up his wrist and arm, some more healed than others.
His expression is blank as he eyes his scarred limb. All are bite marks.
All except for one.
Halfway up his wrist, there is something that looks like a purple-ish, jagged circle. It is a bullet wound, and a rather fresh one at that, still the middle is covered by a crust of dried crimson, blackening and hardening day by day. It doesn't look healthy either; a distinct red flushing surrounds it, about the size of his palm.
The palm of his other hand.
His unmarred other hand.
In a look of deep concentration and something like fascination, he takes his attention off his mutilated arm and eyes the other, the still healthy appendage, an arm which tells of humanity. The skin is soft and white unlike that of the others, where deep scars rag its surface.
It was with that hand he used to calm his little brother down.
It was the hand which held the boy's tiny fingers, the hand that stroked him asleep when he was scared, the hand that ever so gently combed his hair and mended broken clothing. It was the hand that with a pencil recorded the growth of the little one each month, it created the set of marks on the kitchen door frame, tight lines that pulled further and further apart in the beginning of the twentieth century. Even though his brother was grown then and found it silly and childish, the now shorter big brother found it amusing to see how he grew.
It is with this hand he reaches to the dead body on his right side, the body he swore to protect.
He had failed.
He reaches out one of his hands to touch the corpse.
Cold, soft, pale skin meets his warm fingertips.
His appearance has changed drastically in very few moments, from beastly to tender and almost loving gestures. It almost looks as if he expects the creature to respond to his sweet touch.
No response.
He is dead.
An almost angry looks settles over the tender man's face, as he turns his body towards the deceased to face him, he sits up and-
A female voice is raised, panicking.
The man suddenly wakes up from his trance and remembers the two others.
The girl is seemingly very distressed.
The albino pulls the blanket down from himself without letting the dead man out of his eyesight. He curiously and this time almost casually walks towards the two strangers.
The girl is holding the boy's hand cupped in her hands, frantically speaking in a fast tongue. His eyes are dimmed, not seeing properly.
The pupils have stopped adjusting, the optic nerve has quit sending signals to the brain.
His mind is absent, ear drum beating but no nerve hairs react.
He is dying.
Hot, salty drops of water are streaming down her face. She is beautiful even in her agony, the pain of losing someone before her eyes.
His fingers are blackened with gangrene, his whole arm flushing with infection and the twaddle-tell, purple lines of blood poisoning. The lines must have reached his heart, for he tenses for a moment and then settles, leaning back towards the rocks, his head crashing against the rough surface. The rifle he had been holding falls down onto the gray.
In the distance, there is the trace and echo of a loud bang, amplified in the emptiness.
So must have been a country that just died.
The girl is stunned, suddenly lets go of him and clutches her chest.
She must be a country too, and the two of them most be closely connected by heart.
Her short, blond hair is ruffled by the wind, a blue ribbon loosely dangling of a couple of strands.
She collapses back into the grime, huffing, twitching, writhing in agony, letting out cries that rapidly duplicate in intensity and pain.
She throws her head back and her body urges out a savage roar of the cruelest woe that exists.
