Summary: Someone dies. (stormy didn't write this, I, Moonstar did. [The summary not the story] And I don't know how to summarize it, since stormy obviously didn't read the rules carefully enough. Anyways.) Mild violence, no sexual content, no swearing.
I couldn’t control myself. I wish I had. The knife, slick and dripping with crimson blood, dropped from my trembling fingers as I was awakened from my maddened rage. Shock, pure, heart-stopping shock, yanked me hard out of the haze of fury, and laid before me the truth: That I was not anything but an undeserving, inhuman creature. He, a man I had not even known, was sprawled on the dirty cobblestone at the edge of the sidewalk, scarlet fluid pouring heavily out of the wound in his heart that had cost him his life. The wound that I had made. His face... oh, Lord, his face, an expression of something so heartbreaking and sickening at the same time that I wasn’t sure whether to collapse sobbing or to empty my stomach. The fear, the surprise, the disbelief, the confusion, the pure agony was something I would never forget for the rest of my life. His eyes now glazed over with the mist of death, his hair sticky with the blood pooling around him.
My body shook, and a strangled cry escaped my pale, chapped lips. I sank to my knees, and desperately began to search for a wallet. I needed evidence, proof that this man did not have a family, that this man that had offended my “boss” in the merest way possible had a wife, a son, a daughter. My hands touched worn leather, and I grasped the thing in my hands and tugged it out of his pocket. I flipped it open, afraid to see what would be inside. My heart plummeted. No, that was wrong. I did not have a heart at all, because I had killed not a man but a father. The picture in the wallet, faded, of a toddler with the same red hair and brown eyes as his father, with freckles, and a happy, joyous face. Next to the child, a young, beautiful dark-haired woman cradling the boy in her arms, her husband with his right arm around her shoulder, smiling at the photographer. They were so... jovial. So carefree. And I had robbed them of it. Now I had committed not one but three crimes: Murder of one man and the robbery of two more innocent citizens. I placed the wallet back into the man’s pocket and my hands fell limp, like the corpse before me, to my sides as I kneeled by my victim.
The streetlight from across the street flickered. Silence screamed in my ears, but even that could not shake me from the emotion pounding through my mind at the moment. The shock had gone away now. I knew what I had done. But, worse than that, I knew how I felt. I was sure that the man who ordered me to do this did not know this feeling. If he did, why would he order somebody to do it? Dreadful and terrible beyond explanation, this feeling of simply knowing that I had slaughtered a man I had not known, had not had a reason to kill, had not had an excuse. All this for two thousand american dollars. It was not enough. Nothing would ever be enough. Nothing could pay for what I had done.
He did not scream when he was stabbed. I heard a sharp intake of breath, a gulp, and the thud of a body against stone. He gazed up at me with eyes full of fear. “Why...” were the last words he managed before his head flopped to the ground like a ragdoll. Why? Really, why had I done it? Of course I know why, but... why? I had no description of my motive. But I knew I would be punished for my crime. I was already punished, but it was not enough. I yearned for cruelty, to be tortured, to be so full to the brim of pain that my brain simply exploded from the intensity of it all. The country I lived in, unfortunately, was fair. They would not torture me like I asked. The only way was for me to give it to myself, the torment that I wished for. I picked up the knife. My grip was firm, now that I had a purpose. I raised it over my calf. I brought it down.
It felt like fire, ice, and electricity all at once was coursing through the calf. I relished in it, basked in the mixture of pain. As I pulled it back out, I moaned again through the pleasure of feeling the agony. I plunged it through my arm, the one hanging limply by my side. I saw the blade stick out on the other end. My head felt as if a sledgehammer was being brought down upon it repeatedly, over and over again like some sick sort of drill. I pulled the knife back out, and almost laughed from the pain I felt. For a second I was proud that I had felt more pain than the man I had killed. The pride disappeared in less than a heartbeat, and the blade had already gone through my stomach. I wouldn’t need to remember that face now, at least. That injury was too fatal. But wasn’t that what I wanted. Yes, yes, that was.
Again and again, I stabbed my own body until I got what I wanted: pain, filling me to the brim. I smiled a bloody smile, the sticky vermillion liquid flowing freely from my mouth. I had cut my tongue off, and it sat quite innocently on a pebble, sitting between me and the man. Here was the final blow. I raised the knife to my throat. I plunged it through.
The world was ringing. Why was it ringing? Oh, yes. I had killed myself.
The world was flashing, bright, neon lights into my eyes. Why was it doing that? Oh, yes. I had stabbed myself.
My body was twitching spastically, out of my control. But I had always been out of control.
The world was red with...
The world tilted sideways
My head thumped on the cobblestone
Vision fading
Ringing
Ringing
Flashing
Flashing
Then:
Fade
Black
0 expressions of feelings: