Bane of Eden
The shattered apartment was bathed in moonlight.
The windows shielded the howling wind from outside, but the room was otherwise blue, scattered with broken furniture, and devoid of warmth.
Bane was never adverse to admiring true beauty.
And fragility was beauty to him.
Not because he took strongly to helplessness. No, it was rawness that he craved.
Naked beauty. He scarcely saw it.
A great deal of things marred his likes. Society influenced, institutions bended, and so his journey was often empty of this beauty.
He maintained outwardly that he never sought it. And he stayed true to that mantra. It was happenstance that once in a while reunited him with the feeling.
And it was a feeling. It permeated all of his senses, especially his prized intellect. It overrode him if he couldn't stop it. It caused complications if he was trying to follow through on his promises.
Feeling was not supposed to. He didn't consider himself a feral man. He was fuelled by logic and reason.
Now that was arguable, this he knew. He knew that a great deal of people would never see his way; he accepted that. Some people needed growth but didn't seek it.
He was human after all.
So he allowed himself a few guarded, human moments.
Guarded, because he would never expose himself to those who meant to and could exact harm on him. His "human" moments were calculated, and few and far between.
A body lay bundled and soft under his piercing gaze.
Bane closed his eyes.
Recalling a past item, a song, he was reminded that this new raw feeling would also soon be added to his collection.
The song in his mind, and in question, was a choir boy's voice.
The explosions of the field still echoed in his mind brilliantly, though much more quietly than the high ringing of the young child's vocals.
Bane opened his eyes.
Bane rested his hand on the small curve of the woman's hip.
He knew he spent too long in her company. Her skin was too soft. Her air was too complacent. She had long grown tired of his savage visits.
His secrets were his own. As was his collection.
No one could know. No one had to know.
He unholstered his handgun, and pressed it gently to the side of the woman's head.
He pulled the trigger.