Deamons and Daggers

A dagger protruded from his toned torso. Staring at the jeweled hilt, she thought for a moment about pulling it out, watching the resulting gush of blood carry the last sparks of his life away in no more than a minute. She grasped the hilt, and stared into his eyes. They weren't so strong, so confidant. Weren't so fearless, now, but heavily lidded, with dark rings already hanging over his ashen cheeks. Already dying. He started to cough, and red coated his lips, shining them a rich, crimson rose. Like Snow White. She gripped the hilt harder. His breathing came in rapid, short bursts, his lungs trying desperately to compensate for the rise of liquid in their beds, a losing battle. Yes, she gripped the hilt harder, but did not wrench the thing away, but twisted it. Feeling his flesh contort and contract, seizing as the silver alien dug deeper, winding into muscle, tissue and bone. His fists clenched, his chest shaking with raucous tremors. Until at last, his pure, untouched heart, simply slowed, like an old train, run out of steam, and stopped. A whisper of breath, his last, gave a final bid for freedom. Ghosting out his parted lips so gracefully, she thought it must have carried his soul. And as she stared down at the empty shell, and her hands still resting there, bathed in his blood, she wondered where hers had gone, so empty and cold was her own chest. Probably to sink into the soiled earth, and drown in the fires below.