I remember blood.
It may have happened long ago, but every night, I can still remember the bright color, the sound, the sensation.
That beautifully ornamented brass dagger, and the dull sound it made as it sank to the hilt.
And the setting sun burning like a flame outside the frosted glass window.
That moment when the thick blue velvet curtains fluttered, hit by a gust of wind… how dry was the sound.
The way he tumbled to the floor without a single cry, the tip of the blade jutting out of his chest, stained reddish brown! The faint sound of air leaking out from his throat, and then a silence that felt like death, a stillness impossible to defile! How I just stood there, even after the sunshine outside of window had been completely swallowed up by darkness! And after I came to, and returned to the place I was before, I slowly savored the pleasure all by myself!
As if it occurred only yesterday!
I can never forget it.
Maybe I’m trapped in its spell.
People call us “grey wolves,” but they’re wrong.
Wolves don’t kill their own kind. Not for a reason like that.