The Tribute

Though Mirabelle hid in silence, crammed in the dark unpleasant tent, the tears could not be helped. They poured from her green eyes in waves of renewed anguish. She wept for the mess she’d somehow managed to create, all the damage that would never be repaired, the people she hurt. Chase’s face burst into her head, the expression he had worn when they’d heard the wind whispering, Mirabelle Rosaline Winters over and over again.
There was no way out. Her name had been called; no one survives when their name is called from the millions. It’s the risk one must take if they wish to pursue magic. And now Mirabelle knew it was no longer a random occurrence when a name was chosen, she had caused too much trouble for The Order to be allowed to live.
Moreover, she was sure it would not be quick. Sick images swirled menacingly in her head, all the ways they would enjoy finishing her off. She would suffer, Mirabelle took that as fact.
And again the rush of emotion took her. Tears fell until her face, hands, hair, and heart all were soaked. But they didn’t stop, salty droplets rolled from her cheeks and each time they dropped it was a small reminder that Mirabelle was still alive, still breathing, not quite dead just yet. And that’s when the idea hit her. Born from the increasing, dominating darkness settling in her mind, it called to her like the sweetest song she’d ever heard.
As though in a daze, Mirabelle searched the small tent for something, anything that might work. Her bleary eyes found the meat knife Fredrick had sliced the disgusting burnt salmon last night. It shone, piercing a deeper part of Mirabelle as she squatted, staring at it in the semi-darkness.
Her eyes closed, and she choked back rising bile, feeling around the cold dirt for the knife’s handle. A sharp pain and spreading warmth told her she’d found the blade, but as her hand closed around the smooth handle, she realized with a slight jolt that her minor injury in her right hand would mean absolutely nothing in a couple minutes.
Rather than being overwhelmingly emotional, Mirabelle felt almost nothing as she traced the dirty, but dangerously jagged knife lightly over her chest, searching for her heart. Dramatic though she knew it was, Mirabelle decided it was the best place to puncture, quick and lethal enough that if Chase or Fredrick did manage to find her shortly after, she’d be beyond saving.
But what she did not anticipate was the ripping sound that filled her ears as she’d pulled the blade away from her body, preparing to plunge it deep. The tent flap was whipping in the wind and another sound presented itself in Mirabelle’s left ear.
“You’re a coward.”
A much larger hand had grabbed the knife from her shaking hand, tearing it from her grip and throwing it to the side.
“I thought you were stronger than this, Mira.”