The dead eyes claimed him as a murderer on a cold Monday night. They melted away from the world but kept a watchful eye on their sentencer. The eyeballs were gone but the gaze lingered on.
Painted in blood and shroud in sin, Nico watched as the body turned to nothing but ash.
Ash to ash, dust to dust.
The moon hid its face at the sin.
How do you kill a monster without becoming one? How do you end a murderer without killing like so?
Nico wiped the cold blade against his pants. The blood of a murderer smeared there. The dead man's corpse disappeared along with his victim.
"I killed him, Bianca." A dead voice came out of a dead soul. His body still moved with breath. "I killed him for you, Bianca."
You've been avenged.
Nico moved from the scene as the smoke rose to the sky. Police sirens rang but never quite reached his ears. You couldn't hear the angels sing in Hell.
It was Tuesday night when he saw another man try to take a girl for his own. The blade was once again splattered with blood.
It painted him but it was never beautiful. It was something the human brain didn't want to see for a reason.
Thursday offered the same escape, the same cage. The blade didn't seem to weigh a thing. The shower at home was clogged with blood. The mirror showed the murderer he had always pledged not to be.
What makes a monster?
His eyes remained as dark as his father's. His hair was as dead as his mother. His sister's mangled corpse had sent his gaze into a forever distant view.
What made him a monster?
The dead can't speak. They can't testify. Their last words rang through Nico's nightmares.
Bianca pleaded for that man to spare her. When Nico got to him, he pleaded the same.
What made him a monster?
His fingernails were too short. His own blood mixed with his victim's.
What made him a monster? Would it show?
His secret was safe. Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.
Shadows started to look familiar. The streets became his home. The rain was more effective than the shower. The blood dripped into the sewers. The rats ate it up.
What made him a monster? Saturday night provided another example. The blood fell like rain. He had always hated the rain.
The police questioned him. They could never prove it.
What made him a monster? They could see it in his eyes.
Smoke-filled lungs, nicotine-stained fingers. His hair grew long as he made his own grave. The life of a monster never seemed to last.
His life was the city streets and the bloody sewers. He saw the way people were. It was his hands that ended monsters of every kind. It was his own hands that ended his own monstrosity.
What made him a monster? The answer was simple. They bred from each other just as humans did.