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had been holding onto, was directed onto himself in one swift
movement of a blade. And no matter how Eric looked at it, upside
down, through a mirror, he still saw his fingerprints all over it.
It was inevitable, he'd tell himself, it was already decided.
Yet his heart sung a different song, and every note it sang was
another jab at his peace of mind because he knew he was lying to
himself. He was the one who shot the heart-tipped arrow, the
poison to reason, and that was the bottom-line. And he knew he
would hear the cries in his dreams.
This isn't the first time that something like that happened.
Other orders were typically just as outrageous, and he realized
this. He had been doubting and questioning why he's even doing
this to people, sentient, feeling creatures, only to make them feel
unrequited; only to make them get their hearts broken. Yet he loved
his job, for deep down, he truly believed that it was for the best. Not
that he ever knew where the orders he so ceaselessly obeys come
from, because where and why those orders came to him never
really bothered him before.

And so that night he went to sleep, his eyes half-open, mind
half torn apart, brain half functioning still, and his dreams devoid of
color or animation...

He woke up to a familiar tragedy that night. There were two
boys, an awkward confession, another awkward rejection, and a
cry, wet and exhausting. It wasn't right, he thought. That kid
deserved every right to be loved back. Why was I ordered to not
shoot another arrow? Or at least I shouldn't have ever made him fall
in love in the first place. He was just a kid!