How could Ansel possibly kill something so small, so full of life and love? Yet, the harsh reality was undeniable. He had to do it.
Mr. McVeigh stepped forward, his hand gripping a knife with a steady, unyielding resolve. He approached Ansel slowly and gently placed the cold blade into the palm of his trembling hand.
Tears welled up in Ansel's eyes and spilled down his cheeks. The pain was unbearable. He whispered, voice cracking. "Grandpa, what if I do it tomorrow? Today, I want to play with this puppy."
Mr. McVeigh's expression softened for a moment, but his tone remained firm as he gently turned Ansel's head toward the Passiflora flower in the corner of the room. The petals, once vibrant, were now blackened and brittle.
He said quietly. "There is no time left. Do it before the last petal falls."
Ansel swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest. He nodded slowly, understanding the gravity of the moment. "Okay, I understand."
With trembling hands, he raised the knife and pointed it at the puppy's small body. Closing his eyes tightly, he summoned every ounce of courage and drove the knife down.
The puppy's blood splattered across Ansel's clothes and skin, warm and sticky. When he opened his eyes, the puppy lay still, its bright life extinguished.
Ansel felt very guilty. He cried relentlessly.
The next day, Mr. McVeigh returned with a new companion, a Chihuahua. The little dog was larger and older than the first puppy, its tiny frame brimming with cautious curiosity.
When the moment came to end the Chihuahua's life, Ansel's hands trembled uncontrollably. Yet, the dog looked at him not with fear, but with a gentle sweetness. The dog saw his tears, not the knife in his hand.
Then the dog hugged Ansel, as if he didn't want to make him cry. In a surprising gesture of comfort, the Chihuahua nuzzled into Ansel's chest, as if trying to shield him from the pain of what was to come.
Ansel hugged the dog tightly, his voice breaking as he whispered. "I'm sorry."
Those were the first and last words he spoke that day, a fragile apology carried on the wind.
Days passed, each one heavier than the last. On the fifth day, Mr. McVeigh brought a different dog, a majestic Siberian Husky with striking black and white fur. This dog was larger, stronger, and more defiant.
"This is your last dog." Mr. McVeigh said solemnly.
This time Ansel had to fight first to kill him.
Mr. McVeigh opened an old chest and drew out a sword, Arioch's sword. Once belonging to Hansel. The blade was simple but powerful, etched with a red exorcism spell that shimmered faintly in the dim light.
Ansel gripped the sword tightly. The husky growled low and fierce, muscles coiled like a spring. It lunged at Ansel with terrifying speed, but Ansel dodged just in time, swinging the sword and slicing into the dog's belly. Blood splattered across the blade, stark against the steel.
The dog staggered but did not fall. It stood, eyes blazing with defiance, ready to attack again.
It has been a week. He has killed several dogs. This time he was used to doing it. His hands were no longer shaking and he no longer felt sorry for the dog he had hurt.
Ansel's hands no longer shook. The sorrow that had once gripped him had dulled into a cold numbness. He no longer felt the pangs of guilt or sorrow for the lives he had taken.
With swift precision, Ansel slashed at the husky's leg, crippling it. Even though the dog was injured, he was still able to stand up. It seemed ready to attack him again.
He dropped the sword to the ground and focused his energy on the water nearby, a bottle of water beside Mr. McVeigh. He lifted the water into the air, concentrating until it crystallized into sharp, gleaming shards.
He aimed the frozen crystals at the dog, releasing them in a deadly spray. The shards pierced the husky's body, and it collapsed, lifeless. The crystals melted into red-tinted water, mingling with the dog's blood on the ground.
Ansel looked down at his palm, now stained red. A burning sensation spread through his hand, sharp and intense like a searing flame. He realized with a start. "What does it feel like holding a sword? My hands are burning."
He had changed. He had mastered the power to control the crystal, but there was no joy or triumph in it. His emotions felt frozen, locked away behind an impenetrable wall.
Mr. McVeigh approached and placed a reassuring hand on Ansel's shoulder. "I always believe you can do it. After this, soak your hands with ice water."
Ansel nodded, but his voice was hollow. "Grandpa, I felt very strange. I no longer feel anything."
His eyes, usually so full of life and curiosity, now seemed distant, as if a part of him had retreated into a shadowed corner of his mind.
Ansel's gaze softened, the hollow emptiness inside him beginning to stir with a faint flicker of hope. He reached out tentatively, his fingers brushing the soft fur of the dog quietly laid beside him.
The simple touch sparked a small warmth within, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, connection could still be found. Even it was dead already.
"Don't worry, you'll get used to it. Do you know why I chose a dog?" Mr McVeigh said gently.
He stared at Mr McVeigh. Because he didn't know the answer at all. He waited for Mr McVeigh to tell him. Hence, he had absolutely no intention of playing guesswork in life.
Even if it was just an animal, the weight of this lesson was immense. The dog was more than a pet; it was a symbol, a living embodiment of resilience, loyalty, and unconditional love. Mr. McVeigh's choice was deliberate, a way to teach Ansel about connection, about feeling even when the world seemed numb.