I Should Die

falls heavily onto one shoulder, crying out in pain as it dislocates.
    The second of my attackers is upon me, and I swing awkwardly again, unused to such a heavy staff. It hits him low, striking his shins, but he is better prepared than his kindred. Though he staggers, he keeps his balance. He lunges for me, and I skip aside, letting him plow by before he turns and charges me again.
    My enemy on the ground is back on his feet. I have two numa upon me at once, but I am ready, feeling the rhythm of the fight now. Everything I learned comes back to serve me, and I am in control.
    I wait, balancing the stick horizontally in both hands, watching the attacker facing me. It seems that the two numa have no strategy besides rushing me individually. As Gaspard explained, one of the numa’s greatest weaknesses is “anarchy in warfare.” Unless they work under a strong leader, it’s every numa for himself. I take advantage of this and focus on one at a time.
    My enemy roars and runs for me, and I hit him squarely in the shoulder with the blunt end of the stick. As he falls back, I spot the other numa charging me from behind. Pulling the sharp end of the stick forcefully backward, under my arm, I wait until he is three feet away and thrust it through his chest.
    Oh my God. I feel wood pass through flesh and am sickened, my throat spasming in an all-too-human reaction. Don’t think about it, I urge myself. If I take the time to feel, I’m dead. Again.
    The numa’s eyes pop wide and he lets out a cry that is more like a groan as he places both hands around the rod protruding from his chest. I jerk the stick backward out of him, and he falls to the ground.
    Bringing the bloody end around, I swing the rod back toward my opponent at the level of his head. He reaches up and grabs it with both hands, wrenching it from my grasp. But his hands slip on the blood covering the staff and, fumbling, he drops the rod to the ground. I am too close for him to bend down and get it.
    Furious, he roars. Raising his fists, he pulls back his arm to punch me. I strike first, bending low to my left, below his punch trajectory, and kick out with my right foot, planting it squarely in his chest. He stumbles back a step, but lunges low and is able to grab the improvised quarterstaff.
    Swinging it like a baseball bat, he lands a powerful strike to my upper back, sending me flying forward. As my face hits the ground, I feel my cheek grind against dirt and rocks, and lie there, bleeding and unable to breathe. I push myself onto my hands and knees, gasping and choking and spitting dirt and blood. My breath has been knocked out, and I see stars and wonder how long I have before I pass out. I hear the numa coming up behind me, and scrabble forward, trying to get away. He catches me by the hair, grabbing my wet, straggly locks with one hand, and uses it to pull me to my feet. With the other, he holds the sharpened end of the rod to my face. With an expression like he will immensely enjoy what he is about to do, he draws my head back to ram it onto the staff point.
    In the split second before I die, I see Vincent’s face before me once again. He’s on the quay of the Seine, standing in the sun, hands thrust into his jean pockets, giving me that crooked smile that I now know means, “I love you.” I love you, too , I think, and my fear disappears as I gulp one last breath of air.
    But before the stake meets my face I hear a twanging noise, and the numa is knocked off his feet to the side, landing heavily upon the ground. He twitches once, but the arrow lodged through his temple killed him before he even fell.
    “Kate!” Vincent calls, and then he is clasping me against himself so tightly that I can feel his heart beat against my chest. Gasping for breath, I lean against him for support and let him take all my weight as I revel in the fact that he is here . Finally, he lets go and smoothes my wet, straggly hair off my face so that he can see me. He brushes the dirt and blood off my face with his fingertips. The emotion in his eyes makes my own cloud with tears.
    “You’re alive,” he finally manages to say.
    “Not really,” I respond, my chest still heaving with exertion, and then can’t say anything else because he is wrapping his arms around my shoulders, pulling me to him.
    “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he says. And he takes my face in his hands and kisses me.
    It is tender. It is deep. It is my first kiss in my new