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Mr. Danya
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((Nate Turner continued from Talons))

He didn’t have a direction. Of course he didn’t have a direction: there was nowhere left to go.

The machete was still in his hands, he’d not let it go since he pulled it out of Jon. It had been horrible, the sickening noise as blade left flesh, the fresh blood dripping off it, the vomit that had made its way up through his throat. He could still taste it on his teeth.

He couldn’t believe himself. He didn’t understand it. He knew what it was: he didn’t want to die, and this was his only choice, but it made no sense. He didn’t make any sense.

Who was he anymore?

He was walking through the hallway, machete in hand, and it was there for a reason. He hated that reason, and he didn’t want to act on it no matter what, but he just didn’t want to die. When he thought about it, he almost threw up again. When he thought about Jon, he did.

He was tired. He was hungry. He didn’t know what to do.

He wasn’t going to last much longer.

He passed by a door. Stopped. Came back. Somehow, bizarrely, he recognised it.

Ben. Matt. Henry.

He didn’t smile, or frown. He acknowledged it, stared at it, but he didn’t have the strength to do any more. Remembering familiar faces was getting painful again, even when he’d thought he’d stopped caring. Remembering the morning announcements, that Clarice hadn’t made it, that Enzo was dead, that there just weren’t many of them left, wasn’t something he wanted to do.

He rubbed his arm across his eyes, which were still able to get teary even after all this time. The last time he’d seen Enzo, he thought he was about to die. The last time he’d seen Clarice, he knew he was about to die. But, even knowing that it was the last time he’d meet either of them, he’d not done anything meaningful with it.

He’d never done anything meaningful, really. Even before all this, he hadn’t done anything to help anyone. He was a burden on his family, and on his friends. This would just burden them further, with all the grief he was no doubt causing.

At the grief he was no doubt going to cause.

He looked down at the machete in his hands. He hated it, more than he’d hated anything, but it didn’t make any difference.

He pushed on the door. Opened it. Stepped inside.
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