My fingers trace the handle, the delicately carved silver dragon body, it’s
ruby eyes of fire. A masterpiece of craftsmanship and life. All mine.
I touch a hidden button and the blade snaps out. Three inches long, and sharp
as the dragons claw. I rotate the blade to catch the sun and project the
casting onto my hand. The dark etchings in the blade reverse themselves and
spell out over my palm. C’est la Vie. That’s Life. I laugh at the thought
then catch myself. No. Not life. Not mine. The sun goes behind a cloud and
I close the blade, then snap it out again. One chance. I touch my finger
lightly against the edge and blood wells up out of the cut. I trace an arc
from the base of my index finger to the bottom of my palm. More blood
appears and drips down to form the shape of a crescent on my hand.
I take the blade in both hands and hold it above my heart. The sun reappears
and the dragons eyes sparkle, as if seeking my blood. It drinks.

I rise above my grave, searching the eyes of the mourners. The priest reads
the rites, and sprinkles water over my coffin. I waft through the crowd,
unfelt and unheard. I turn and look down at the city below. Where are my
friends, the people I knew and loved? The crowd shuffles, they pass my
grave, cheap flowers landing on the cross that never shed it’s light on me.
I scream, Where are your tears? They do not hear. I lash out at someone and
my hand passes through them like blood through a sieve. I clench the hands I
no longer have and run through the crowd. I stop. One person, tears on their
face. Damn you, I cry. Where were you before? Where were you when I needed
you? I lash out again, transparent fists against nothing. I run on, red
tears running down the cheeks of my ethereal face. No one cared, and when
you did it was too late.
Damn you all.