sharp knives and short lives

She had thought she was ready. She had thought she was ready for this. She had thought wrong. Because this. No one could ever be ready for this. This wasn’t like the weightless feeling of falling off a cliff or the comforting pressure of being swallowed by quicksand.This was fire. This was fire burning deep in her chest, fire filling up her lungs, fire spilling out of the hole between her ribs, the place where cold, unforgiving metal met muscle and flesh. This was unlike anything she had ever endured before, and she couldn’t even breathe through the pain because she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t breathe and every time she tried the only thing filling her lungs was blood instead of air, the only thing coming out of her mouth when her lips parted to cry out was blood instead of sobs, the only thing her hands could get a grip on as they scrabbled desperately at the sword in her chest was blood instead of the second chance she’d worked so hard for. She gritted her teeth as her gloves came away red red red, slipping and sliding on the slick, sharp surface of the blade piercing straight through to her soul.