Jan. 18th, 2011

[identity profile] akonken.livejournal.com
It felt good.

I mean, only for a second, until the screaming started. But it did. It felt great.

It's been building up for a while. It started with Ricky. Ricky Royal, small-time con artist and symbol of everything I abandoned, everything I bled from myself, everything tainted I burned away so that I could rise, phoenix-like, as Emma Poole.

When Ricky showed up - showed up to my house - I was terrified. He knew me. Seeing that smile, feeling his finger running up my arm, watching him make the moves on Anna...I felt sick. I was frozen.

After a while, though, I started getting mad.

I've always had a terrible temper, too; it's like my brain gets white-hot and I can't really think.

This time I stayed mad.

The thing is, they're all doing it. They're all conning and manipulating people to follow them. And I'm sick of it.

I'm sick of it.

Screw the kings. The so-called kings. Screw them.

People are not their playthings.

They're going down. And I'm going to bring them down.

That's what I was thinking when I unveiled Oliver Cromwell's skull, if I was thinking at all.

Looking at the poor man who'd been changed to be a knight instead of a brilliant scientist, watching his expression waver, that felt right.

It felt good.

It felt great.

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