i. Insanity
I take a moment as I dip a blade into her chest, and blood begins to ooze down the sides of her torso. I admire the way it leaves trails of crimson red on her young, pale skin. I lean forward, over her body, and gently drag a finger down her face. So beautiful. Such youth. Why must the good die young?
I insert my fingers into the incision. My hand. It is a glorious feeling to touch the insides of a human being. I marvel in it. How many people in the world can say that they have clenched their hand into a fist inside the body of another human? Very few alive on the earth today. How many, over the course of human history? I take my hand out of her body; it is covered in blood and strings of flesh hang from my fingernails. I imagine compiling such a list, signing my name in blood on the bottom of the page. I extend my fingers, spreading them like the legs of some gigantic, deformed spider. I trace the letters onto her skin.
B.
B.
There you go, L. A confession.
But you already know, don't you. You already know who is killing. It's me, it's B, it's the child who was meant to turn out as your copy. It's you. That's what I am. I'm you. If I wasn't you when we met, I have become you since. I am L, and I am a killer. But we already knew you were a killer. Kya ha ha ha! How else would A have died!
It is only then that I realize my hands are smearing blood across my face. I don't remove my hands right away. My fingers trail across my chin, my lips, rubbing the thick liquid into the inside of my mouth. My teeth. Painting on my cheeks and nose, like a child, and then I close my eyes as I paint my eyelids, like makeup on the whorish women in the streets of Los Angeles.
Los Angeles. Oh, I love Los Angeles. The City of Angels. So full of drugs and prostitutes and an underground, thriving community of rats, thieves and criminals. I don't belong in Los Angeles, but I love Los Angeles.
In a way, I am doing a good thing. I am bringing L to this city, this polluted, rotten city in desperate need of a cleansing. Of a complete cathartic purging. Los Angeles needs to be attacked and destroyed and rebuilt. I am asking L to do that, because I am busy causing inevitable deaths. I am doing a good thing.
While I muse on my goodness, I have lowered my hands to the girl's face and plunged my fingers into her eye sockets. I hadn't even realized. I laugh a little at the absurdity as I pluck her eyes out of her head. The squelching, tearing sounds are delicious. I inspect the pure milky whiteness of the eyeball. Beautiful. Angelic. I bend over the corpse, feeling a deep bond with the body. Angels, we are both angels: the only angels in the entire poisoned city.
She, an Angel of Innocence, martyred by the cruel twists of fate.
I, an Angel of Death, dutifully serving the purposes that was determined for me before my birth. Fulfilling the tasks that my eyes assign to me.
As I sit up again, letting go of the corpse, and begin to clean myself up, then take disinfectant wipes and set to work around the apartment, I whistle. I am so happy. I am a good man, a man who has discovered his purpose, something that so few people ever do. Oh, what a beautiful thing. I am proud of myself, and before I go, I kneel in front of a small crucifix they have hung on the wall, and I cross myself, and I pray.
When I am done I think, I've lost my mind and I revel in the truth.
This is entirely an ode to The Catching Light Alchemist's 9 Masks. I hope you don't mind me all but stealing your idea, Alex! I know this particular vignette is very short, but that's because it's got a very specific number of words, if anyone cares to check.