The First Kill
His fists curl tightly, his nails digging on his palm. Sweat trickles down his face, and his shirt is drenched with both it and blood. Whose it is, he didn't care much. It doesn't change the fact that the amount of iron stench staining him could only be doable by something brutal, something heartless, by someone cold-blooded and horribly vile.
He quivers as gusts of wind curve around, almost suffocating him as he stands back. His eyes are unmoving over the dead body on the asphalt. His insides lurch as he sees the blood slowly spread, coating the lifeless person's clothing, seeping through the fabric, climbing up and sticking to the skin that's gone pale white.
And then there is movement on the man's jacket, and so, encasing his hands with a pair of gloves, he reaches inside, feeling the absence of warmth through the clothing. He takes out the phone from the pocket and unlocks it. Another beep is heard, and there is a pop; a message unravels before his eyes.
Hi, honey. We're having your favorite for dinner tonight. Come home early, the kids and I love you!
His grip on the phone tightens, and he feels his palm perspire. He has killed a man, no, a husband and a father. Regardless of the adamant demand of death of the man for dismal and deplorable transgressions, to kill had always sounded so… evil. He had always been led to believe that anger is a sin, and paramount to that would be the depravity caused by unbearable slaughter.
Although the man had gone to fight for his life, he deserves to be credited for that. For someone with the occasional grey and white tufts of hair on his balding hairline, he had put up a good fight, in a sense of being speedy and ready. The man had staggered by the sudden attack, but had hastily bounded on his feet with both his knuckles curled and ready for a punch. The punch never came, because the quick snap indicated an immediate death by a brutally quick twist of the neck. Silent, but dominant; swift, but wicked.
Yet at the same time, the feeling of supremacy and triumph pumps through his veins, and it terrifies him. The feeling could only be recognized as that of a prolific chief murderer, one who finds ill bliss in basking in a pool of blood and layers of reeking bodies in a bloody massacre. He senses the drive of an assassin racing in his body, of a serial killer with merely an innate desire to present death on a silver platter.
And he realizes, not for the first time in that moment, of how grisly and repulsive he is.
He hears the ambulance approaching north of him. He gives it approximately 72.5 seconds to arrive. With utmost force, he snaps the phone into two, and throws it over his head, towards the cliff. With not one more look at the victim, Natsume Hyuuga bounds back to the trees, trying to remove the image of his first kill at the age of seven.
A/N: So if you know about the 2013 House Cup, and you witnessed the bloodbath that could rival with Battle Royale, you'll probably understand where this is from and how it came to be. Cheers :)