Prologue #2
Cold fury rises in me, a resurrected ghost looking to take someone to the Underworld. It’s the first real thing I’ve felt in hours. And it feels good—right.
This isn’t my fight, but fuck, if it wouldn’t feel good to take out my aggression on these wasted pieces of rotten human skin.
My hands move before I realize what I'm doing. Grabbing a thick branch, I swing it at the fucking prick closest to me. He drops, and her neck is released. A sweet cry of relief bursts from her lungs, but I don’t celebrate with her.
My focus is entirely on the other two. They stumble back, and while watching them, I bash the branch into the unconscious kid’s crotch. For aesthetics.
They scramble, and the dickhead with his small balls flapping in the air, hurries to cover himself.
“Jesus, Linwood, what are you?—”
“I’ve had a shit day,” I begin conversationally. My lips twitch, and a smirk pulls at my face, though happiness is far from how I feel. Leveling the branch at him, I continue, “Say something to piss me off. I dare you.”
They exchange a look, and the girl shudders, still held captive.
But I don’t see her. I see my mother—beautiful, fair, docile, pinned beneath my father for years. She said no every night, but he never listened. He never stopped.
And I had to endure, locked in my bedroom, never once able to help. Being confined has never sat well with me since those horrible days.
“Time’s up.”
Lifting the end, I catch the one holding her by the chin, then stab it into his gut. Fuck, that feels good. The girl drops to the ground, sobbing, but my rage colors my vision. I don’t hear anything over the pumping of blood in my ears and the cries of my mother from memories long ago.
Of her fight. Of her shouts. All I hear is my failure, and feel the icy rage in my chest. Rage that’s being unleashed on these cocksuckers. They deserve it–maybe worse.
The last comes for me, because he thinks his size does anything for him. He’s bulky, and I’m thin from malnourishment. But it’s made me a better fighter–deadlier. Swinging the edge of the branch, I catch his cheek, and blood sprays into the air.
He falls to his knees, and I bash the top of his skull. A nice dent forms, and he teeters to the side. His body crumples, but I don’t stop, enjoying the give under each strike. The way his body thumps and rocks with each whack. The noise, the relief. It tickles me.
But yet, he’s still alive. I’ve hit him over a dozen times, and he continues to breathe.
The audacity, really.
Tossing the branch away, I grab the knife from my pocket. Flipping it open, I hold it to his neck. The bastard chokes on his blood, eyes red, nose mashed. It’s pretty, actually, in a morbid sort of way.
“You really shouldn’t have done that.” I shrug. “These are the consequences of your actions. Maybe you can learn from this.”
The knife cuts easily into his throat, slashing it wide. Like a dam pulling free, hot blood gushes over my hands and soaks his stained T-shirt. Transfixed, I watch, letting it seep into the ground under his body, into my skin, and through my sneakers.
I’m not scared of it, no. I’m mesmerized.
It’s amazing how something so ugly, so hated by many, can transform into something so beautiful.
I don’t know how long I kneel next to his body and let myself float away. I’m untethered, embracing the relief the kill has given me. Distantly, I wait for the sounds of sirens or screams. Someone should be looking for him, or discover what I’ve done.
But nothing happens. The air turns cold, the sounds of the city drift away, and all that’s left is me, the water, and a few corpses.
My shoulders sag, and that crushing weight in my chest is finally gone. Weird way to expel grief, but I’m not judging it. I’ve never been normal.
Someone clears their throat behind me, and I rip the knife from the dead guy’s throat.
A tall man, with ruddy cheeks, dark hair, and puffing on a cigar, stares down at me. Dressed in a worn leather jacket and scuffed boots, he doesn’t look intimidating. I can certainly take him—but I see his eyes. They halt me from reacting further.
I recognize a glint in those dark eyes. A gleam of madness, a spark of insanity that will come out and strike if pushed too far. It’s the look of a predator who hasn’t been tested yet, but will kill if given the chance. I see the same look in my eyes in my reflection. The mark of a killer.
“Put it down,” he says, gesturing to the knife. A thick Irish accent flavors his words, and I swallow. Flicking away ash, he puts the tip back into his mouth. “You won’t need it with me.”
“Doubtful.”
He comes to my side, nodding once as he looks at the bodies. “Messy. You’ll have to learn to clean up your technique if you want to stay out of jail.”
I gulp, ready to attack. “Jail?” I’m not fucking going to jail. I’m never going to be locked up again.
“I’m not with the cops, boy.” He shakes his head, puffing on the end. The red light flares in the dark. “But I could use someone with your talents.”
I snort. Talents? What talents? “Killing hardly seems like a skill someone would want.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.”
With a hand on my shoulder, he steers me further away, hiding our footsteps as he goes. I didn’t think about that. I only saw red—and heard the screams. Then, I disassociated. Anyone could’ve found me. He might’ve just saved my life.