I promise to lighten up on Young Kire after this chapter.

Giver38

I often wondered what the small band of men saw when I pulled myself from the grave. There I stood; a filthy, blood-covered boy in tattered clothes with a mask shielding his face. I imagined it was as though I had risen from the dead, a corpse drenched in red, teeth bared like a blood thirsty wolf. They had assumed I was ill, yet they had created this incurable sickness, this need for revenge.

No one reacted when I climbed to my feet and stared at them. I wanted to stalk after them, sending them running in terror for their lives as the beast advanced, ready and more than willing to rip into their flesh.

One man sat eating an apple, another squatted beneath a tree and picked dirt from beneath his fingernails. They both paused, but neither seemed gravely concerned with my presence.

"Who killed her?" I demanded, almost beside myself in anger. They sat in silence, so I tried again. "Who killed my dog?"

My voice shook with rage, and when none dared to answer, I barreled toward the closest man and began clubbing him with my tightly closed fists. In a fit of pure loathing, I snarled as I pummeled him with as much force as I could muster. My stomach flipped, my mind still clouded, but with indiscernible grunts and growls, I sought my revenge, certain someone would lose their life at my hands. With every ounce of fury, I summoned the wolf within, the terrifying lupine commanding their respect and demanding they submit.

Revenge, however, would not be pursued easily. The man, who was taller, stronger, and in better health, pushed me away. Teeth gritted, I reeled back and lost my footing, but refused to stay down.

"Did you kill her?" I bellowed.

My outburst gained the attention I craved, the audience I wanted for my bloodletting. The rest of the men gathered around, their interest piqued by the wild beast of a child putting up a fight.

"Fight me," I said between harsh breaths. "Fight me to the death."

The man shook his head. He waited until I lunged for him, then grabbed me by the hair and drove me into the ground with such unforgiving force, I felt like a stunned cow awaiting slaughter.

The salty taste of blood filled my mouth and I realized I had bitten the tip of my tongue. I spit into the dirt, and the circle of onlookers chuckled.

"He has a swing or two left in him," I heard someone say. "Ignorant bastard."

I forced myself to stand, but the world around me rotated, shifted as though I were merely silt in the bottom of a bottle. With each labored breath, I felt cold and clammy, the world narrowing, the sound of laughter dimming.

My knees gave out and I fell to the dirt. A man grabbed me by the shirt and hauled me backwards and I knew what would happen; I only hoped I would pass out before I was thrown into the grave. Desperately I clawed at the black earth, attempting to hold onto something, anything at all. It seemed there was nothing left to grasp.

"Uncle," I pleaded with the last breath left in my lungs. I could barely hear myself over the raucous laughter and taunts, though it seemed like a fitting last word to utter.

The man pulling me across the ground flipped me onto my back and knelt hard on my chest. Oxygen left my lungs, forced out by the pressure on my strained ribs. My eyes watered and I gasped like a fish pulled from a pond, wide-eyed and desperate.

"Let's see what he looks like beneath this mask," he said.

The crowd cheered. I coughed, my legs writhing, hands pushing at him but I was seconds from blacking out completely. I remembered looking him in the eye and seeing how he enjoyed putting me in my miserable place, how he savored each bit of the fight I still put up.

Cold, cruel, brown eyes creased with laughter as he reached out, pulled my head as far back as it would go, and ripped the mask from my face.

I never knew if I lost consciousness or if my mind had ceased to function. I had no recollection of what followed, though the nightmare played many times in my mind, always ending with him reaching toward me.

The only part I remembered came after; when I felt the cool rush of air against my cheeks and saw the man clutching his bloodied hand. My best assumption was I had bitten him, though the taste of blood in my mouth could have very well been from my own tongue.

He kicked me once in the stomach before chaos ensued. I heard a gunshot, then another, then men frantically scattering. With the last of my strength I attempted to drag myself to safety, but another man grabbed me by the shoulders and forced me onto my stomach.

"Lay still," he ordered.

I had no choice. Tears streamed down my face, my lungs so exhausted that I couldn't muster a sound. Numbness refused to take hold and I felt consumed by a pounding heartache and unbearable pain. Nothing had ever hurt so badly on the inside, and as I lay there trembling, I felt miserable in my failure.

When the noise died down, the man who had pinned me to the ground eased his grip and allowed me to turn over. Dirt gritted in my eyes and irritated my nostrils. I wiped my face with the back of my hand and shuddered, afraid of who or what now held me captive. I could still smell the gunpowder in the air and hear men shouting as they ran.

"Here," the man said. "My son."

I didn't have to meet his eye to know who had stood over me. I reached out a trembling hand and felt the soft fabric against my fingertips as my uncle allowed me my mask once more.

My mind was too unraveled for words. I moaned softly, wanting to ask how he had managed to make his way through the crowd, how he had saved me. I wanted to know how long they stared and what they said in the moments erased from my memory, though I knew he would never tell me.

"Is this your blood?" he asked, his voice filled with fear. He leaned onto his cane and eyed me with grave concern.

I shook my head and covered my face with my hands.

"They were cowards," he said to me. "There is no honor in harming women or children. Only a man lacking all character would do such a thing."

I nodded, absorbing his words. I felt weak and unsure of myself, but I refused to ever be a coward.

The sky had clouded over, the air turned cooler than before. I sat motionless, afraid to move or speak, afraid to invite further pain. I hoped if I sat perfectly still, my uncle would rouse me from this nightmare. All I wanted was to find Girl pressed up against me and my uncle shaking his head, wondering how I could sleep beside a filthy dog.

"Erik," he said at last. He dropped something heavy at his feet and I glanced down, seeing a pistol. Blood splattered in the dirt and I guessed he'd fought someone for it.

I turned my face away, overwhelmed by the commotion, which did nothing to lessen my loss. "They killed her," I whispered.

He said nothing for a long moment. "I heard the gunshot." He sighed. "And a dog cry. I feared they'd shot you as well." He paused for a long moment. "You're fortunate, my boy. There were a lot of drunken, lazy men napping and milling about. They didn't notice an old man with a cane."

My bottom lip trembled. I thought back to the dog my father had killed, how it had made one last cry before it struggled soundlessly, it's throat slit wide open as though it were a puppet. Girl's agony had been intensified. When I closed my eyes, I saw her face, her white teeth and dark gaze filled with panic. Hers had not been a merciful death.

"I loved her," I sobbed.

He placed his hand on my shoulder. "I know you did," he said. "And she gave her life to protect you."

"No, she didn't. She was nowhere near me," I argued. "They killed her because she was there. They killed her because I brought her with me."

"Erik…"

I had no desire to be consoled. I wanted this misery as my own, and indeed I felt I deserved it, even craved its company.

He sighed. "They knew she would come for you," he said. "There would have been no stopping her."

"They shot her," I said blankly. "They stopped her."

I heard him step away from me, and when I looked to see where he was going, I saw him pause by the grave. He crossed his arms and shook his head.

"I'll bury her," he offered.

"No."

"Erik, for God's sake, you cannot stand."

With that, I took a deep breath and slowly climbed to my feet. I blinked several times and sucked in wild breaths, which kept my focus. Cold sweat trickled down my brow, but I said nothing, afraid my wits would abandon me.

"I can stand," I replied once I took my first step. "I can do it myself."

My uncle frowned but said nothing more. He picked up two shovels that had been left behind and handed me one.

We moved the earth in silence, both of us working on opposite ends. The grave was narrower than I had originally thought and now that I saw it from above the ground, it looked more like a holding pen or trap for a wild boar.

I hated leaving her there, in that place above a train station and insignificant town. I hated that she had come for me when she should have run off. I hated that she had survived the first few days, that ugly damned, beaten up dog with her chewed off ears and body littered in scars. I hated that she trusted me, and in the end I had given her nothing but pain and death.

My uncle sat to rest and suggested I do the same, but I refused to stop. My hands ached, blistered, and bled as I placed the last of the dirt onto the grave and looked for a stone to give her a marker.

"It's enough," my uncle said. "She's at rest."

I stormed away from him, gritted my teeth, and hefted the largest rock I could carry back to the newly turned earth. The sun had started to fade and the majority of the day had been spent burying my dog. I dropped the stone and fell to my knees, wondering if peace would ever outweigh the sting of grief. It felt as though my chest would implode, though I didn't care. If the emptiness consumed me, then eventually I would stop hurting.

My uncle put his arm over my shoulder and exhaled as he drew me closer. The strength of his embrace had faded, though I wasn't sure if it was because I wasn't ready to accept it or if he had realized I would crumble beneath him if he pressed too hard.

"Your heart," he said. "It's deeper than the ocean, Erik, and that insatiable depth is difficult to bear."

I made no reply, feeling as though nothing would ever fill me, aside from anger.

"You were not the one who killed her," he assured me.

"I was not the one to save her, either." My voice had turned tight, each word refusing to come out. I finished with a sob and shuddered. All of my life I had known pain, yet this ache curled tightly within me, so horribly acute and raw—and there was no end in sight.

"We need to leave at once," he said. "It's not safe here."

"We can't," I blurted out. "Not without Moon."

"Moon is safely tied to a tree," he said. "But I'm afraid she has reached the end of her travels with us."

My eyes widened in horror. "You can't leave her bound to a tree! She will starve to death!"

He shook his head. "No, no, my son, I meant she will find a home here," he said gently. "There's no place to stow her on a train."

My mind reeled as I thought of losing her as well.

"No," I said firmly. "No, I won't leave her."

His shoulder's dropped. "Erik, this is not a decision to make lightly."

It hadn't been made lightly, I wanted to tell him, and there was no choice. Girl had died because of me and now he wanted me to abandon Moon. Aside from my Uncle, these were the only two souls in the world I had cared for and that had given me affection. They were not mere animals, they were my family, my tribe.

I wouldn't do it. I would stay and die beside her—and I said as much in my fit of desperation.

"She's a beast of burden," he said, growing irritated with me.

"I am a beast." I pointed at my masked face. "If she is not allowed on the train, then neither am I."

"I sympathize with you, my boy, and I know you were fond of both these creatures, but we must keep moving," he said, his tone stern.

"Why?" I challenged. "Why do we need to leave now? Without her?"

He pressed his fingers to his forehead as though I had given him a terrible headache. "You already know the answer," he said softly.

I shook my head. "You never wanted either of them," I said, frantic to prove my point. "Never."

"I'm dying, Erik," he said in a tone lacking anger.

His words were spoken so plainly that at first it didn't quite register. I attempted to convince myself this wasn't true, that I had been blind to his condition, though now that he had said it aloud, there was no turning back or denying.

Still, I shook my head, making one final, vain attempt to deny the truth. When he didn't speak, I turned and walked toward him. He had become so frail, so emaciated and weak. I had no idea how he had managed to help me bury Girl or how he kept his strength. Years later when I thought of him, I knew he had done it only for me, for the ignorant, wretched, foolish child he had rescued from a cellar. I felt a great deal of guilt and shame for my inability to respect him as he respected and loved me. If he had lived to see my life, I had no doubt he would have been gravely disappointed with my occupations.

In that moment, however, I was devastated. When he put his arms around me and lifted the mask from my face, I bawled harder than I ever had or ever would in my lifetime. I rested my forehead against his shoulder and wanted nothing more than his guidance. Long before he took his last breath, I mourned him, this temporary father.

He said nothing to me and I made no attempt to speak. There were no words that fit, only heartache whispered through tears.

"There is not much time, my son," he said in my ear. "But what time there is, I give to you."

The depth of my heart would run dry.