[Awakening] - Stepping Stones

[lslaw.livejournal.com]

Challenge - transitions from human into monster

There's so much blood. It surprises me, the way it erupts from the wound, running free and bright across my hand. The knife sticks fast as I try to pull it out. I struggle, becoming a little hysterical, pummelling the agent's body with my free hand as I wrench at the hilt with the other, fingers sliding on the slick leather as I force more blood out by my actions, splattering it across my face and body.

At last, the others drag me away, wrap me in a coat and spirit me off to somewhere they can clean me up. I feel sick for a week.

The gun is easier; the spurt of blood almost artistic. I find a curious detachment in the act, although the shock afterwards is every bit as nauseating, as the adrenaline fades and the limp, discarded ragdoll targets resolve once more into real, flesh and blood people whose lives have ended by my hand.

Another knife, another chest cut open. I know in my head that it shouldn't feel different, but it does. She was twice as dangerous as any man I ever killed, but there remains something in my upbringing that won't let her be just another death. My hands shake and my stomach heaves; I struggle to be rational, but all I can think is that I've killed a woman, but never been with one. There's something oddly calming about that thought, and although I will know my share of lovers later in life, something in me will cling to this notion that I am made more for death than life.

Later I find my weapon of choice. People want to be heroes; you only have to tell them how. It's shocking how easy it is, but I don't lose sleep after the first time, the first bomb, the first reports of civilian casualties.

As I strap explosives to the woman I love, I barely flinch from it.

In London, when it's all over and all the cause and the fervour is gone, someone tries to rob me. Maybe he's just desperate, as I am desperate, but all I see is the knife and the frightened anger. In retrospect, I could have made a hero of him, but I don't. I take the knife and drive it in, just right, so there's not too much blood.

I twist the blade in the flesh and it comes free easily.

Later that month I will tear my soul apart and barely feel the sting of it.