The Altar
by Kinto Mythostian


Life is worthless.

It is a blessing to know this.

A hundred years living in ignorance is of no value compared to one day, one hour, one infinitesimal moment of knowledge of the Noble truth.

I reflect on this enlightenment and rejoice in it in the dark behind my blindfold, lying on the Academy temple's altar, my wrists and my ankles bound behind me. I am free.

My moment is now. I have spoken the words that have condemned me. I have Chosen death.

I know no fear. My vulpine tail rests calm tucked against my legs, my dark pointed ears relaxed. I have control of my entire self.

I am a model sacrifice. I will die well. I present myself as a precious gift in my Black formal uniform, humble, as quiet and consenting as the proverbial lamb. Defenseless, rendered helpless to preserve my life.

At the first cold touch of the blade against my willingly bared throat my skin flinches in shameful reflex. It is a disappointment. I am above instinct. The instinct to fear, to fight, to live.

At the blade's second touch to my pulsing warm flesh, I move not a flicker. I have conquered my instinct. My surrender is complete.

No one says a word. Total stillness reigns in the temple.

With one simple motion, Danielle slices my throat, consigning me inescapably to my deserved death. 

I make not a sound, my lips part barely a fraction. My heart beats fast, oh so fast. My blood, my life flows out of my neck, gushing, spurting, spilling down onto the cold altarstone.

I feel its heat against my skin. It is hot, so, so hot. It is my life that pools on the altar, my death that my racing heart now hastens me to.

There is a feeling. It may be called pain, but I welcome it. It is a consequence of my Choice. My breath comes short and fast, heavy in my lungs. Even secured within the familiar cocoon of my dress I am cold.

But my blood, it is still hot, hot as molten gold, yet far more valuable, escaping the fatal wound inflicted on my innocent flesh. There is so much of it. So much. I have much life yet to live, but I have Chosen death.

Every pulse pushes more blood from my body, matting my fur, my scarlet fur I so meticulously groomed, soaking into the black velvet of my dress, my dress I garbed myself in as a sign of humble servitude. 

Flashes of memory, thoughts of things past, dreams of things yet to come, things that will now never be, flicker through the tear-salted darkness before my eyes. All of it is my sacrifice, surrendered, spilled on this sacred altar, my past, my future, dying with me in this holy moment.  

The feeling of pain is growing, spreading burning cold tendrils through my shivering body. It is death. My jaws are clenched, my fingernails digging into the palms of my hands. Death is coming for me. I have summoned it. I have Chosen it. I have triumphed over instinct. I have rejected life, worthless life. I am a Noble sacrifice. 

I have Chosen death. I repeat this mantra inside my head, concentrating my entire being onto this precious thought, this pearl of wisdom, this nugget of truth. Choice is what defines us, what raises us. As my blood spills from my ruined throat, as my lungs seize, as my shuddering heart finally, finally stops, my soul exalts. As my body clutches pleadingly to life, appealing to the instinct I have cast aside, I remind myself, I have Chosen death.

I have Chosen death.

I have Chosen death.

I have Chosen.

Death.





First draft written June 14, 2015. Editing completed June 26, 2015.