color of vengeance
Everything is dark.
Silence presses in around him, but inside is a cacophony of bloodlust and rage, clawing at the underside of his skin to be let out.
His eyes crave to see nothing but red, to feel the slick flow and spurt of blood on his hands, his arms his chest his face as he stabbed that fucker right in the throat –
Shaking, pacing, planning. To get out is his first order of business, the hardest order. After that, to track the bastard down, hone in on his scent his trail and hunt that piece of vermin down. Hear him beg for mercy, feel his limbs crack as he throws him down, pins him. Ignore his cries for help.
He ignored hers, after all.
But strangling him with a knife and watching him drown in his own black blood won't be enough. He wants to tear his hair, to break every one of his bones, to cut and burn and give meaning to every pang of panic and utter hopelessness he felt during the fucker's own dance with her death. He wants to make him FEEL what he'd done to her, to feel even a fraction of the Hell he put them both through. He wants to destroy every fiber of the man's being and set the pieces ablaze.
The bars are metal, but they groan under his weight as he throws himself at them. Bruises are nothing but a brief annoyance, broken skin no impedance. Pain is empty to him now. Nothing can match the thunderous revenge in his shredded heart.
Errant rock is plucked from the floor, reached through, and the lock is smashed. He watches the pieces of metal litter to the floor, frozen for a moment with a brief surge of relief and self-fear at destroying something so easily. His bloodlust has him shoving that feeling away easily, and he rushes down the corridor, ignoring the plaintive cries of prisoners on either side of him. He is the wolf, the crow with a straight shot, the hound on the scent of dinner. His hackles raise almost instinctually, toes curling in his shoes, spine curled tense and ready to strike.
Stone stairs, illustrious hallways, chandeliers glinting back the dusk's fading light from high ceilings. He's back up in civilization now, though whose idea of civilized is questionable. The neat and cleanly setup makes him sick, with the world and with that worthless piece of meat – he thinks he can hide behind it, to pretend everything is good and right and that he isn't tyrannical, isn't a murderer, a MONSTER –
Voices in the room adjacent to him give him pause. They're hushed, hurried, have purpose. He steps closer, pressing an ear to the smooth teal door, falling silent.
The wood is thick, the voices muffled, but the hunter is silent. He is calculated and ready to catch any hint of the breadcrumb trail to his prey's unsuspecting nest.
"I'm going to resign. I can't do this."
"You have to, you have no choice, he'll kill you if you try to leave now."
There was no question on who the 'he' referred to was. That cocksucking filth, probably bathing in rose water and congratulating himself on another rebellion well squashed. But these in the room were deserters. These were pieces of a puzzle he could pillage for information, for swifter hunting.
He doesn't bother to knock. They'll be startled either way. As it is, they grow abruptly silent, faces pulling into wide animalistic masks of fear, grotesque and childish and comical all at once. These are not fighters. They are soft and colorful and high fashion like the rest of the Capitol and they will not help him with anything more than simple directions. A slight frustrated snarl rips from his throat before he can control it, and they jump again, cowering against each other, unsure of his intentions.
He realizes how much of a mess he must seem to them. Leather and cotton clothes torn, stained and in disarray, olive skin smeared with dirt and grime and dried blood. His dark hair is matted darker, beyond saving, and he must look like nothing more than a wraith from their most terrible nightmares, something crawled up from the depths of hell with nothing but blackness in his heart. He laughs a little at how close that is; it does nothing to placate them.
His voice is cracked, a deep husky croak, but he owns it, using the roughness. "Where is Snow?" he demands, step forward, piercing grey eyes staring into their souls.
It takes a moment, but one of them finally pipes up with a shaking hand pointing out a direction. "H-his office is that way, l-left at the statue at the end of the hallway and th-then it's the double doors, can't miss it." The man's ardent orange eyes crack a little with hopefulness. "Are you going to..?"
"I'm going to kill him." That's all the explanation he gives and then he's back on the trail, eyes narrowed with utmost focus, whole body crackling with pent up killing rage. So close, he's so close, so fucking goddamn CLOSE
The double doors splinter under the heel of his boot, shards of destroyed wood flying inward. Something is thundering in his chest, heart or anticipation or revenge, he isn't sure, but there the monster is, there is that CUNTRAG SHITSTAIN HE HAS NO WORDS FOR and he's staring, but not fearing, coolly regarding, and there's nothing more he wants to do than sink his fingers into this nothing's neck, and then he is, and Snow's head is falling back against the fallen chair, crack, but he still shows no fear.
He still shows no signs of remorse or fucking anything, nothing but a goddamn smile on those disgusting overlarge slug lips. He tightens his grip, smashes his head against the chair again and again, until it comes back red, and he's still smiling, he's still FUCKING SMILING and he is about to lose it, he really is—
"What do you have to say for yourself?" he manages, leaving him room to speak, but not to take control of himself or his voice.
"It… was fun… while it lasted." And there's the smile, and here, he thinks, is the lights out, and he takes the pads of his thumbs and presses them in against windpipe.
Nails cut skin and the blood flows, but he doesn't care. All he cares about is the dull popping and crunch as he collapses this monster's throat, all he cares about is the sudden lack of control in this face below him, the cheeks turning purple, hands clawing feebly for him to let go. He doesn't. He pushes harder.
But then he lets go.
Gagging and clawing at himself desperately, the man is now pathetic, but still the rage doesn't leave him. Boots connect to his sides, leaving bruises. A letter opener, once on the desk, is now a small blunt knife, stabbed into his abdomen, into his intestines and twisted, pulled, guts spilling. The stench is heavy in the air, mixing with roses, but for once, the blood is stronger. Another stab, and another yank, the letter opener pulling out with a kidney stabbed on the tip. He rips it out, throws the weapon away, ignores the strangled gagging scream caught in the bleeder's throat, just sends him his own smile down, one that doesn't reach his eyes and shouts nothing but absolute hatred.
Fingers broken, ribs smashed in with more swift blunts of his boot, and then he's finally still, finally completely and utterly still and as white as his hair, white but for the macabre artwork of blood and gore splattered over him like rose petals. He's no more. He's gone.
He still can't help but smash his head under his boot.
Stares for a moment at his work; breathing slows, vengeful tension bleeds from him, and he stares.
Turns, tracks red behind him on his way to the door. Would close it behind him, but it's in pieces on the floor; he steps over them and tracks more grime into the hallway, grinds it into the carpet.
He's not sure where he's going yet, but it doesn't really matter, does it?
Where there was once a barely contained ocean of anger and feral violence is now empty. He feels hollow. There's a pang of relief behind the nothing, but it's not enough.
He's gone, but so is she. And he can never get her back.
He finds himself slumping against a wall, holding red arms to red stomach. Red streaks behind him; everything is red, like he wants.
But now, in the nothingness, there is also the absence of color as Gale finally breaks down in this tattered, calm-rent hallway and sobs for the loss of his Katniss.
This deserves a bit of an explanation. I have a slew of problems with my father, who left me speechlessly angry before I wrote this. At the suggestion of my beta Peeta the Frosting Prince, I wrote this as a way of getting it out without actually stabbing my father in the face like I wanted to originally. xD It didn't start out as a THG AU fanfic but it just kind of morphed into one and I'm glad it did; I had a hard time grasping Gale's character before this, but now that I know what he's like when he's broken I think I can build him back up to just before that point for another fanfic I'm trying to write.
Reviews are love, thankye for reading. &hearts