My vision blurs as I stare down the length of the ravine. Someone’s speaking to me, but their words are muted, it’s as if I’ve been shoved underneath the sea, left to drown. Something has stained my face, my hand reaches up to rub it off. I’m expecting the feeling of salt, of dried tears. But, when I pull my fingers away, crimson stains them. I feel my brow furrow as I study my hand. I don’t remember why I have blood on me. I don’t remember how I arrived here. I pull my attention away from my hand to look down the ravine once again. I am immediately reminded of why there is blood splattered on my face. “We need to go, right now, Monica,” she’s screaming at me. She’s shaking me, begging me. And yet I can’t find the strength to look away from the bloodbath in front of me. My eyes are wide, so wide it’s hurting my face. I think my forehead will be forever stuck this way, in the terror of what I’ve seen. My jaw hangs open in abject horror, but I can’t even manage to close it. “Monica! Monica, please,” she’s sobbing. She’s sobbing? I turn to her for the first time since looking down the ravine. My expression does not change, but my thoughts do. She’s sobbing? “Are you crying?” I hear myself say. I don’t remember forming the words, only knowing they were coming from me. She shakes her head, still holding back the pitiful cries. Tears stream down her blood stained face. She’s gripping my hand in hers, squeezing it like it’ll make everything okay. “Monica.” Not a scream this time, but a whisper. So quiet, it could be lost in the wind. I look up at the sky, and I wonder if I should say a prayer. I’ve never believed in any God or Saint, but I think this must be damnation. For the first time in my life, I know religion will come for me, chew me up with its fangs and spit me down to Earth. My eyes flick back down to her, but my head does not move. I feel a surge of fury at the self-pity I see on her face. I know she feels like the victim, and yet has chosen to ignore the metallic tang of blood in the air. The tang that is wafting to me from its home in her hair. She’s still squeezing my hand, and I see her lips moving, but hear only silence. I start to return her squeeze, and I see relief flicker across her face. She begins to tremble, her knees no doubt close to buckling beneath her. She leans her forehead on our shared hands as the force of my hold continues to grow. My grip tightens and tightens until she snaps her head up to look at me. I lower my head so that it is finally level with hers. The Gods are not on this mountain, no need for prayers. “Monica?” She says my name again. It’s all she can do, and I almost feel bad for her. I almost forgive her for what she’s done. I almost pull her to me and take her down the mountain. I almost hold her, whispering encouraging words into her hair. Almost. Instead, I yank her with such force, I think I hear a pop. No matter, it’ll be over soon. I drag her to the edge of the ravine as she struggles against me. She’s no match for my strength, all of those times she’d laughed at me for training. “You’re so paranoid,” she’d say with a small chuckle and familial affection. Yes, I was. I was paranoid of people like her. As I shove her in front of me, she continues to whimper. She’s pleading with me, I know, but I don’t care. Not as I continue my mission. I place one hand on the back of her head and use the other to grip the injured arm. I push her face into the ravine, making her look at her crime. “Look at what you’ve done,” I say in her ear. My voice is low, unsteady. A symbol of my lack of restraint. As I’m craning her neck forward, I catch a glimpse of her victim. Blood stains the sides of the rocks, torn skin and hair are scattered. The broken body of her son lays at the bottom, just next to the water, like something wanted to ensure he’d be found. His eyes are open, unblinking as they stare at the sky. The eyes that look exactly like his father’s. Is that why? Is that her reason? His crime was having blue eyes? He’s so small, so little even in his death. I feel tears pricking the corners of my eyes as I continue to viciously hold her in place. I can tell I’m hurting her. She’s sobbing, uncontrollably sobbing, but I feel no sympathy for her. “Please, please, Monica!” she screams at me, “Let me go!” I smile, but feel no amusement. “Of course, dear sister.” I let go, listening to the sounds of breaking bones and screams. I feel the salt tears I was looking for, finally streaming down my face. I close my eyes, sighing in relief. A small grin takes hold across my face and I feel laughter rise up inside of me, giggles bubbling around like butterflies in my stomach. I laugh so loud, I’m sure my sister will rise from the dead, snap her neck back into place, and shush me for being so unladylike. At the gruesome thought, I start to laugh even harder, bending over and holding my stomach. My ribs ache at the continuous, forceful laughter that they are having to endure. I open my eyes and look down the ravine, still chuckling. I see the broken bodies and for some reason, it doesn’t stop my laughing. The sounds coming out of me are maniacal, and I’m sure she’s driven me insane. But then, the world stops. For a moment, nothing else matters. It’s just me, all alone, standing on the mountain. I close my eyes, breathing deeply, trying to steady myself. Trying to remember that the scene in front of me isn’t funny at all. The shock wears off, and my face finally falls. I do not smile as I watch the water flow gently over my sister's body. A wave of disgust and fury hits me. I’m so angry with her, but I miss her presence with me. I see my nephew’s little face, just a few feet away from her, and a part of me shatters. I fall to my knees, not to pray, but because I cannot bear to stand. The tears are still there, but I’m not crying any new ones. Grief comes in waves, they say. I don’t want to fall beneath another wave. I’ve never been good at swimming. The choice before me is simple.