This Hurt Me To Write And It Hurts Me To Reread - Blog Posts

His hand had slipped.

He'd been digging the bullet out of Bahorel's chest, he'd been careful, because the bullet was so damned close it could have punched right through his aorta and that would have been the end of it --

and then it wasn't the bullet, but the knife.

The knife, that Joly had trained his hands to be steady while holding, that cut through the aorta, and gave Bahorel only seconds to lift his eyes to Joly's and laugh painfully, once, before his blood finished spilling out over Joly's hands and front.

And Joly was left there, still holding the knife in his traitorous, murderer's hand, and clutching his friend with the other, too shocked to cry.