Last One Standing.

A short prose piece.

A lone marshmallow sits on the table. An empty glass rocking from side to side disturbs the silence as it grinds against the wooden table. Blood pools around the marshmallow, staining the bottom a rusty red. Small fingers loop through the sticky hair, placing a three leafed clover behind the open ear. A small voice whispers

‘Looks like you weren’t so lucky today, hmm?’ A giggle follows as the child steps off her seat, her bare feet padding on the cool stone. The girl continues to braid the blood lathered hair.

***

Burgundy splatters stain the legs that swing from the old ash tree. Art? Her tutor had called it as she passed a razor between her fingers letting blood dribble from her thumb to her wrist. She replayed the conversation in her mind whilst observing her blood.

‘No-one is untouchable however you are a step ahead of the game once you realise this. The only damage you should take should be from yourself. You allow any other damage, you have failed. Take this razor. Small yet deadly if applied to the correct areas. Arteries, backs of ankles, eyeballs...use your imagination if you must. Now go on, that’s enough for today’.

***

The tutor lays on the ground, body facing up, arms facing down and head approximately ten feet away. She searches the robes and finds a lumpy package. It reads ‘Last One Standing’ . She opens it to find a green glass bottle, chipped around the mouth and sealed with a cork. A dark liquid dances behind the engraved lily flowers. She fondles the bottle for a few seconds before stashing it in her own side pocket. Staying low, she wipes off her fingerprints from the surrounding instruments the battle had required, leaving nothing but a razor sliced into the eyeball of the severed head.

***

Another problem is stricken off. A bloody fingerprint pressed alongside the given name. The only one left was hers. She squinted and threw the paper back in her pocket. No. She couldn’t be the last one. It was not possible. She had wiped out the entire race, all but one.

Others had tried in the past, but following her tutors teachings, none had even come close.

No. She decided when her fingerprint would be added, she decided when her name would be stricken off...not that anyone else could have been able to strike off the name once she was gone.

***

She glances up at her desolated surroundings whilst stroking the cold glass of the potion bottle.

‘Screw this’.

Biting down on the cork stopper and pulling it out it quickly falls to the ground with a soft thud. Scanning the area once more she lifts the bottle up, pressing the chipped glass to her lips allowing the warm fluid to dance along her tongue before running down her throat. She stumbles, vision is blurred. A buzzing sensation tingles on the edge of her skin and then...

Darkness.