Artyom Dereschuk - Hate the Sin

I can do it, he told himself. If I don’t approach her now, I’ll never gather enough courage to do it again. I’ve already left the camp. It would be pointless to stop now .

With that in mind, he resigned to take another step. But before he even planted his foot, he heard the grass rustling nearby.

The boy froze; was the sound coming from him? Was he imagining things so that he wouldn’t have to go through with his plan?

A few seconds passed, and he clearly heard the same sound again. The blades of grass breaking under someone’s feet, pushing aside as someone’s body was moving past them. Someone else was there with him, and he couldn’t see them.

The boy instantly kneeled, trying to make as little sound as possible—that way he wouldn’t catch a stray shot aimed in his direction. His heart sped up again, only for a completely different reason. Whereas before it was beating with sweet anxiousness, it was now pumping his blood making him ready to flee.

The villagers, the boy thought. They set up an ambush to keep us out .

He knew that they didn’t have any guns, or else they’d have used them to protect themselves when the brigade had first attacked them. But what if some of theirs had been lost or forgotten in the commotion of their nightly raid? What if, instead of guns, the surviving villagers chose to arm themselves with axes and machetes? Those wouldn’t have worked against the firearms in a standoff, but they were a perfect choice for an ambush. A quick blow to the back of the head wouldn’t make much noise.

The grass rustled again, and Marlboro Man cocked his gun, ready to fire. He didn’t know where the assailants were or whether they even knew that he was there, and the uncertainty was gnawing at him. Had the fight started, he’d have a goal—something familiar. Something he knew how to deal with, something that would keep his thoughts occupied. This? This was driving him insane.

A second passed. Then another. There were no more sounds. Nevertheless, Marlboro Man waited for a whole minute until he was sure that he couldn’t hear anything anymore. Only then did he rise and take another step.

Immediately, he realized his mistake; as if set off by his movement, the unknown opponent rushed at him. Unbeknownst to the boy, both of them had chosen the same tactic, and Marlboro Man made a poor move when he revealed his location.

His submarine’s position had been spotted by another one.

Whoever was coming at him was going fast, and there were no shots, which confirmed the boy’s earlier theory; the assailant was armed with some sort of melee weapon—something that was not practical at a distance, but that could do nasty damage if the attacker reached him. The boy had seen what kind of horrific wounds an axe could cause and, in all honesty, he would prefer the clean death a bullet could provide.

In a panic, the boy threw up his gun and emptied half of the magazine in the direction of the incoming noise, gritting his teeth. He realized that he could probably achieve the same result with fewer bullets, and in the heat of the battle every bullet counted. But it was too late to change anything. He silently cursed and listened.

The noise stopped; it seemed that despite the impulsive waste of ammunition—or maybe even because of it—his assailant was defeated. But it was too early to celebrate; perhaps the enemy was just playing dead.

Figuring that they already knew where he was, the boy started slowly moving toward his attacker, carefully moving grass out of his way with his free hand to have a clear shot.

He noticed the body when it was a few meters away from him—as it lay on the ground it pressed all the grass down with it, making a clearing in the green wall that surrounded them.

Marlboro Man carefully stepped into the clearing, keeping a close eye on the hands of the slain attacker. If the assailant had a knife in them, and if he was playing dead, he could slash at Marlboro Man’s Achilles tendon if he wasn’t careful, making it easier to kill him. But the attacker’s hands were empty and, if anything, they didn’t look like they could kill anyone. They seemed soft and tender, even for a woman—from up close, Marlboro Man could see that his attacker was indeed one.

A horrible suspicion crawled into Marlboro Man’s mind, and he took a step to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of the face of his assailant. His free hand shot up to cover his mouth when he recognized her features—the same features that had been haunting his dreams for the past week.

Without a doubt, in front of him lay the young priestess of the village, struck down by his bullet.

“No,” Marlboro Man uttered, so quietly that he could barely hear the word himself. Only one phrase was flashing in his mind: It is all my fault .

This was not how he had imagined them meeting. The gravity of the situation was overwhelming; she saw him as only an enemy, and the moment they met one of them would inevitably end up dead. Standing over her motionless body, the boy realized: there was never a future where they could be together.

Perhaps she’s still alive, the boy suddenly realized. If I take her to the village, the villagers might still be able to save her. Maybe she’ll forgive me when she sees that I’ve saved her… And if not, then at least she’ll live .

That hopeful thought brought him the strength to move again. Kneeling next to her, the boy grabbed her shoulder, intending to turn her over; he had to examine the wound first.

Poor thing, the boy thought as he looked at her pristine face. You have endured so much over this last week… Stay strong. Your people will see to you soon .

As he thought that, he took a glimpse at her leg, and something caught his attention, making his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

The wound on her leg—the one that the General left when he shot her—had healed. There was barely a scar left; the only thing that made her leg stand out was a strange semi-transparent coloration of skin where the scar had been.

Confused, the boy nevertheless turned her body over to examine the wounds.

There were none.

Her dress had no holes or blood marks on it, and her hands and legs were also unscathed. Even more confused, the boy looked at her face, fearing that the bullet had gone into her forehead.

Her eyes were open, looking straight at him. In them, Marlboro Man didn’t see the sympathy or longing that he had hoped for during his sleepless nights. The emotion in them was the complete opposite of that, clear as a day, signing a death warrant for any hopes the boy had nurtured, its clarity instantly making the boy’s soul drop into the abyss of despair without any effort from him to stop that.

Hatred. Cold and refined, it crystallized in her eyes with absolute purity.

Its intensity made the boy lean back from her and assume the defensive position. Had it been anyone else in his shoes, he’d scoff at them for being scared of a woman’s glare. But at that moment, he wasn’t thinking about what a true warrior would do; the things he saw in her eyes shook something in him. They weren’t a man and a woman anymore—they were something that preceded a time when creatures had two sexes: a predator and its food.

She’ll probably try to kill me now, the boy frantically thought. Even though she was unarmed, the confidence in her eyes that she could pull that off was scaring him. That’s why she stopped playing dead. Will I have to kill her for good?

But before he could take even a step back, her face changed to a scowl of fury, and her hand flew up in an arc, hitting him in the face.

The unexpected weight behind her blow split both of his lips and knocked a few of his teeth out, making him flip backward and land on his stomach. Marlboro Man couldn’t understand what had just happened—how could something like that happen? But the sharp feeling of pain sent his whole body into a state of emergency.