The Memory Painter

D’Anthès’ gun fired. Alexander felt the bullet flame in his stomach and dropped to his knees. As pain fogged his mind, he stared at the blood blooming in the snow and thought: I am a winter rose.

He saw that the bullet had hit exactly where Natalia had forgotten to sew a button back onto his coat and the realization brought his mind back to his duty. “My shot,” he insisted, though his voice sounded faint.

D’Anthès stood still, but with a slight tremor. Though mortally wounded, Alexander still had the right to shoot. He aimed as straight as his shaking limbs would allow and fired. He saw d’Anthès drop to the ground.

Alexander fell back. The deed was done. He stared at the sky above him and waited for elation to take hold, but felt only emptiness. “Strange,” he murmured to the clouds, “I thought I would be pleased.”