“Regretful,” the officer sighed through his moustache. He stood rocking onto the balls of his feet, eyes staring upwards, aside, anywhere but the bloody mess before him. The body was little more than a heap of rent muscle and splintered bones. “Such a promising student.”
Matilya stared at the officer – at his unblemished uniform and gleaming brass buttons – and could hardly find the breath to ask, “What is to be done?”
“Well, hm. Well.” The officer bristled. “We will proceed with, eherm, procedure .”
He didn’t move.
Matilya wanted to sit, but knew she couldn’t. Not anymore, not until all of this was settled. She felt light headed.
“At least tell me how I died,” she whispered.
The officer rocked again, his moustache covering any expression that may have crossed his face.