Eight
Everything came back to me in the morning. Daylight touched the horizon lazily as I witnessed a big gathering from the window of the hut where I used to be a prisoner of the chain, now a prisoner of my own guilt. The funeral.
It seemed like there were more corpses than survivors left and weeping echoed amongst the mountains. I observed only from a distance how Caleb held a small corpse wrapped in grayish linen in his arms, and how he put it into a grave he had dug. He stood at the grave for a long time, staring into the emptiness of the sky. I refused to mourn the dead.
The wound on my right hand would heal slowly, but a scar would always remain. My hands still shook slightly, the hands that in one single day had killed so many people. I had shot them while looking them directly i
