Vicious

It doesn't take much thought anymore. It doesn't even take much force, really. A slight flex of muscle and the truncheon lands with a wet crunch. Bones shatter, skins splits, blood flows. Always the blood. Lifeless eyes staring up at me, tainted red. Their faces are all the same now, dull and pleading. Blurred until the last details fade. Then comes the black bag, their final face. Blood still finds a way to leak out, running down the rough seams of the hood onto their paling skin. They stop pleading after that. Silence hangs in the air, unusually chill. Disgusting.