I watched Pierre's head slam into the wall; the blood spraying like thick mud against the white.
His body crumbled and fell, lifeless and empty as the red dripped and dripped—
His neck. His head. His eyes—! They were bloody. And golden. This sudden, violent painting ruthlessly, mercilessly completed.
Enraged and in pain, Pierre died alone. And lonely.
My heart, it felt—
My muscles tensed. My hands clenched.
Empty. Distorted. Strange—
Truly, I didn't know him. Pierre was a stranger to me. Someone I wouldn't have cared for previously.
But my eyes, drawn by a wrathful fist, watched the torture of my comrades in a daze. There was sweat pouring down my face. But it was cold. And distant. And hazy.
The images slowing. Perpetually misty. My feelings? Almost nonexistent.
One was beaten. Another one choking. Yet more were cowering. Another. And another. And yet one other—
I was staring. It was…I was…
My fingers moved hesitantly.
There wasn't anyone coming after me. My arms were free. My legs…
But alll of them were dying. The smell of copper. The wet of blood. And the feel of air heating.
And those wretched, horrid gloves, they were slimy with blood and bits of flesh as they were beating.
Sniffling. Crying. Someone was sobbing. Someone was sobbing and it was annoying! Irritating! So infuriating! And disgusting!
My nails pierced my palm—
There was heat. Blood. And shameful relief. It wasn't me.
It wasn't me—!
My lungs. They felt hot. And disgusting. And these smells of sticky sweat and coppery blood were somehow in my mouth even as I was breathing—
My hands. I was staring down. At them. They were trembling. And the veins. They were green.
Were my veins really such a vivid green? Was this normal? Was this truly me? Perhaps the sounds of weeping were messing with me.
Because blood. It was everywhere around me. And that boot was stomping and crushing and grinding down before me—
My body, I felt a distance between it and me. It wasn't moving. It wasn't even twitching.
Or was I moving?
There were hands grabbing. Were they [my] hands? Yes. [My] hands were grabbing. And pressing. There was something boiling. Inside. A venemous whisper. A tragic, poisonous rage.
Kneeling. Was [I] kneeling? There were knees kneeling. And screaming. Thunderous, heady screaming. That boot, it wasn't before [me] any longer. No, not any longer.
That larger body, it was shaking above [me]. And hot blood fell upon [my] face like rain. I didn't feel the pop. No. I didn't. I was certain. It wasn't me.
[I] felt the skin that crept beneath [my] nails. And the wet that stung [my] eyes. And felt there was beauty in the scenery.
The pleasure flowing—coursing—cascading inside [me]—
I experienced something…alien inside. I felt it…moving. Thriving.
Inside my back, it stretched. Luxuriously. Or perhaps unfurled is a more accurate definition.
All I knew was it wasn't me.
What had they done to me? What was I becoming?
***
I don't remember much after. Horror. Terror. And glee.
Bodies ripped and tore in [my] hands. And the feeling of squashed liver and live flesh lingered long after.
Of course, there was the Beast. Its fangs and claws and teeth—
However, [I] barely felt the skinning of [my] flesh; muscling [my] way through its body. The hole was huge. And bloody. And dripping all over [me]—
But those masked figures all died. Horribly. And their bodies littered the ground like sand.
But revenge hadn't even crossed my mind. Because [I] wasn't thinking. No fear. Doubt. Or any other emotion filled [me]. Except glee.
Not until [I] kicked a bloody hand and ground it like paste did it occur to me. The others—?
[My] head tilted sideways—
Then rearranged itself nicely. There should be others. I knew. There should be others around me! Where? Where were the others—?!
I—what did I do with these hands? What had I done?!
Hot. I felt hot. I felt so damned hot and I was bleeding—!
Just what had come over me—
A light, hesitant tap.
My head whipped; looking from one body to another and yet another—
There! I trembled. Behind the door!
The heavy weight fell from my shoulder; the eyes peeking at me quietly, nervously shifting.
I ran. And they closed the door hastily—
They…shut me in. I scared them.
I wiped my face, frantically trying to clean the blood and present myself differently.
It didn't help. I was stained. By killing.
They'd…never…see me differently…
Hot tears. Bitter anger. But these feelings, I trapped them. Buried them. Wouldn't dare think of think of them.
I was sure. More were coming.