The warrior sits in the undisturbed tranquil.
Alone, except for the weapon and the ritual drink.
Devices in place to ward off those who would interfere
with this important proceeding. The Daemons at the door pleading
him not to go ahead. A quick re-evaluation, he decides there is
no option. His peers expect this of him. The mark of a warrior.

One last gulp at the drink and the container is empty, a
necessity. This warrior takes the knife, and slowly he
paints a diagonal from his hairline to the opposite
cheekbone. His pallet is all crimson ribbon.

The scar will show his mark of passing. Pleased, he
rises from the bed, knocking the radio off the table
in his drunkenness. The door opens to his mum collapsed
against the radiator on the landing, sobbing.
Were there options?
The regrets.