carve

The fact is, the Doctor killed the man who came on our ship. I can’t say it was the wrong thing to do, and I can’t say that anyone ought to have hesitated in doing it. He was a threat, and I’m glad to know the Doctor feels as if the crew is something worth defending.

It’s just that I got a good look at the man’s body. He wasn’t just shot, though we gave them guns. The Doctor cut him, slice after slice, from his neck to his wrist. Straight, orderly cuts, right through his clothes and skin and arteries and veins. Killed him quicker and more painful than a bullet could have done it.

Brutal. That’s the only word for it. I’m not sure anyone else got a good look at the man, no one else seems to be looking at our young medic any differently. He isn’t acting any different, but it feels like we hardly know him at all. When I asked him about what happened, he was far too casual.
“Man showed up in the doorway with a gun. M got scared and I took care of him. Of all of us, guess I’m the one to know how to do it.” He wasn’t bothered by it at all, unless he was carefully controlling his normally expressive face.
Em wouldn’t answer me anything about it. I’ve seen her addled by chems but never this shaken up. She won’t look at him at all, and keeps shrugging, over and over, as if she’s trying to shrug off whatever it is she saw. Maybe she’s never seen violence before, though that’s doubtful. Or maybe, like me, she’s shocked that a man like the Doctor would slash a man to death. Slice after slice.

I tried making some orangey biscuits from my recipe book, everyone else seemed to like them but they stuck in my throat. Nothing seems quite right, and though there isn’t a speck of blood left on the ground, I still can’t help but see it.