I was in the training room when the news came. It was Tyler who walked into the room, his face not showing any emotion. After years of war, he learned to cover it. But it always showed in his eyes. Disappointment and grief.
“Bea." I looked up from what I was doing, sharpening my knives, and my stomach dropped when my eyes met his. He took a deep breath, making the twisting feeling in my gut worsen, and then he spoke. His voice was quiet. "Anthony was found dead this morning, out in the woods. Puncture wound to the throat. No signs of struggle.” He faltered, letting the words hang in the air for a long moment. “His cards were gone."
Only then did he look away, his eyes trying to find another place to stick to. It took a moment to sink in, but when it did, everything turned sharp. My fingertips felt cold. I stood suddenly, my knives clattering to the ground, and brushed past Tyler. I slowly walked down the hall, making my way to where I knew where everyone would be.
Finally, I came upon a big room, dark, lit only by candles. New and old pictures of soldiers lost in the war were scattered everywhere, pinned to walls or set up on chairs, taped to columns. Little notes were next to some. A small group of people were gathered in a corner, around a small, dusty picture of Anthony.
Only one person noticed my presence, Shade. She turned, opened her mouth to say something, but I moved forward and pushed past her, through the crowd. When I made it to the front, I saw the picture of Anthony. It was the one I found in the abandoned part of the Italian base with him. He was young, still wearing a suit, gloves. His eyes were dull and his face was free of emotion.
This was the only picture of him.
To think, that this was the only memory that would be kept of him. When he had just started, killing innocent people, full of bitterness, full of regret. He looked nothing like he had, just yesterday. A small smile lighting up his face, his eyes warm, full of love. Hair messy and in his eyes. Not tucked under a tall top hat, like in the photo.
Without thinking, I put my hand on it, gently brushing the photo with my fingertips, the cold, smooth paper. Then my hand clenched, and the picture folded in my fist. My knuckles were white. Only then did I notice my hand was shaking.
“B…Bea…?" I recognized the quiet voice as Hank, but didn’t reply. I looked at the crumpled picture, at Anthony's now distorted face, and I ripped it off the wall.
"Bea, what are you d–” I tore it in half, once, twice, over and over until I couldn’t anymore, until the pieces were too small to rip, then dropped the pieces onto the ground. I spoke quietly, my voice hoarse and broken.
"That is not Anthony Rousseaux."
I turned on my heel and left, pushing through my friends and coworkers. No one spoke a word as I passed. Making my way down the hall, my head wasn't working right. The world was dizzying, everything was going blurry. My feet felt numb, my hands as well. Everything felt wrong.
Memories flashed through my head of him and me, dancing, hugging, talking. Our first kiss. Falling asleep tangled up with him. I found myself in my room, our room, and I stumbled into the bathroom where I fell to my knees, puking into the toilet.
Anthony's dead. The thought circled in my head. Over and over. Anthony's dead. Anthony's dead. I curled up on the cool tile, hugging my knees to my chest. Anthony's dead. Tears started to blur my vision. Anthony's dead. A choked sob was torn from my lips.
He's dead.
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