Chapter 12: I am me
Jim's corpse collapses to the ground with a dull thud. I watch in silence, the echoes of the gunshot fading.
He had already made his choice before I even returned, huh? The look in his eyes… I didn't understand it then, but now it feels clearer.
The pit in my mind stirs, the voices within rustling like caged beasts sensing weakness. They claw at the edges, begging for release.
Stress? Fear? Is that a shadow of guilt?
Discipline doesn't waver though. It smothers their pleas, deaf to the honeyed promises they whisper. Madness stands guard, cackling as it slams the lid shut, setting the edges aflame for any foolish enough to try.
I am still staring at Jim's body. Half of his head is missing.
I turn away, but the scene is just as shitty. The clearing reeks of failure—burned and broken bodies, the acrid scent of death hanging in the air.
Maybe it's my fault for leaving them alone.
Maybe it's their fault for being incapable.
Maybe it's the alcohol's fault for simply existing.
But no.
I do not care. I will not care. I will not make excuses, for that would imply a desire avoid guilt. Why would I avoid a shadow?
I bury it all beneath my resolve. My path is my own, and I am me, no matter the circumstances. Everything that happens—every moment, every step—I will grind into whetstones.
Jim's last words echo faintly in my mind, fragments of drunken conviction lingering like the smoke in my nostrils. I wave them away, not because they're meaningless. If anything, they likely hold some shard of truth.
But I stopped chasing universal truths long ago. I have no desire for answers from gods or systems or anyone else. I'd much rather forge my own, even if I am the only one who believes it.
I ignore the gnawing protests of my stomach as I step toward Jim's remains. His body, emits a faint wisp of soul mist—so little that it's already beginning to fade.
Curious.
I kneel and pick up the shotgun from where it landed after Jim's final act. A bloodied 12-gauge. The stock is chipped, and the only barrel bears scratches deep enough to suggest years of use—or misuse. On the grass nearby, three shells lie scattered, their brass glinting faintly in the dying firelight.
I pick one up, turning it between my fingers. "Buckshot" is stamped on the side. The grooves in my hand are sticky with blood, and the casing feels heavier than it should. I don't need a manual to know what this does; Jim's lack of a head was a graphic enough demonstration.
I glance back at the shotgun. Its chamber is open, gaping like a maw. I examine the bloodied stock and the slick, metal barrel. It feels foreign in my hands, lighter than I expected. Still, I flip the shell over once more and line it up with the chamber.
The first attempt is shit, the shell slipping from my fingers and hitting the dirt. I sigh, wipe my hand on my pants to clear some of the blood, and pick it up again.
This time, I shove the shell too far to one side, the metal grinding against the edge of the chamber. I pause, tilting the shotgun, and try again with a little more care. On the third attempt, it clicks into place, the dull sound of success oddly satisfying.
The shotgun feels more balanced now, but still strange. I snap the barrel shut with a sharp clack and glance at the safety. Off. Good.
I raise the shotgun to my shoulder experimentally, feeling out the weight and angle. The stock digs into my shoulder, the barrel wavering slightly as I adjust. Calmly, I shift my grip, leveling the sights at an imaginary target, my finger hovering just above the trigger. It's not perfect, but it'll do.
A sound cuts through the stillness, jagged and shrill. Screeching.
My head snaps up toward the tree line.
"Oh, what took you so long?" I mutter, voice dripping with sarcasm as I spot the intruders: a group of ten goblins, their beady eyes glinting hungrily. The smoke must have drawn them here.
Nine of them rush forward, brandishing crude weapons—stone daggers, splintered clubs, and sharpened sticks. Their movements are chaotic, animalistic, but the intent behind their snarls is clear: blood.
But it's the tenth that holds my attention.
It stays back, its intelligent eyes fixed on me. It grips a gnarled staff made from twisted wood, and even from here, I can sense something off about it.
Its gaze bores into mine, and despite the small horde closing in, that one feels like the real threat.
[Goblin Shaman – Lvl 3]
"Fuck you, Jim," I mutter under my breath, clutching the shotgun. "
You couldn't have waited a few more minutes, could you?"
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A.N - Thanks for reading so far!
I am posting the latest chapters on RoyalRoad, so go over there and you might find some more. The reading experience might also be better because I actually use bold letters and italics for different stuff, but copy and pasting erases them. The paragraphs are also better differentiated.
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