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His hair was still sticky. That was the worst part about it, that his blood-matted locks were so coated that they still stood straight up off his head even though it had been hours since Simon had dragged the knife across his throat.
Hours since Brother Martin had been cut down from where he’d been strung up to the Last Tree’s lowest branch, hours since the soil had sucked up all he’d had to offer, hours since the Father had declared that Brother Martin had nobly entered the Grove. Hours since Simon had been left alone with the task of taking care of the remains, yet here he sat, simply staring at the corpse of the man who had prepared him for this job in the first place.
“The world isn’t for me anymore, Simon,” Martin had said, covering wet, heaving coughs with hands two decades older than Simon’s, calloused yet holding no wrinkles. “Maybe it’s not for anyone. But I can give you some time to find out.”
He’d actually smiled at Simon, even with his voluntary demise looming. “I’ve taught you everything you need to know. You’re gonna be fine.
But while Martin had guided Simon through the steps of post-mortem butchery, even let Simon handle the entire process on his own on a couple occasions, that initial slice had always been left up to Martin’s hands.
Simon’s grip couldn’t help but shake as he’d brought the dagger up to his mentor’s throat, biting his lip in a vain attempt to hold back oncoming tears. He’d tried to steady himself, to regain some level of composure to ensure his draw would be smooth. Yet the cut was anything but clean, the blade stuttering over the first inch of Martin’s skin, and his resulting inhaled hiss of pain had caused Simon to freeze.
Instincts had supplied him with a million rushed thoughts, to drop the knife, to help Martin down, to flee, but he’d stayed in place, pinned by Martin’s upside-down stare.
“Finish it,” Martin had commanded in a whisper just for Simon, blood trickling down his neck and over his cheek.
And so, in front of all of Eden, during a sacred ceremony, Simon had screamed. Rage, terror, and mourning swirling to fuel the remainder of his slice across Martin’s throat, his teacher gargling and twitching with each of Simon’s jagged drags.
Now here they both were, Martin still staring up at him with clouded, half-lidded eyes while splayed out on the same table he and Simon had taken care of so many others on.
And his fucking hair was still sticky.
“I did it, Martin,” Simon muttered, slouched in his stool and hands draped over his knees. “I didn’t give up. Are you proud of me?”
Martin, of course, had nothing left to say.
Simon had already taken too much time. Eventually someone, maybe the Father and his entourage, would come by to see why Simon had yet to complete his duties. At the moment, however, he simply couldn’t care less.
All alone in the universe, Simon set his head in his hands, sobbing over his friend and the last scrap of his boyhood.