I had never seen so much blood in my life. That's all I could think about as I stood over his body. He was unrecognizable now, and as my anger subsided, the weight of what I had done started to become clear.
I turned my hands over slowly, staring at the blood covering them. My shirt, my pants, even my face was covered in it. I shifted my gaze back to the man on the floor.
What would you think of me now, Father? I thought bitterly, the mere thought of him hardening my gaze. After all, he was the one who I'd gotten it from. This anger, these bouts of uncontrollable rage. My father, dead for the last 24 years, yet his own blood ran alive as ever through my own veins.
The sobbing in the corner snapped me back to attention, and as I laid my eyes upon her I knew that she hadn't meant to make a sound.
"Oh, God. Please," she put one hand out in front of her, as if the gesture in itself was enough to stop what I was capable of.
I wanted to hate her. I really did. But as I stared into her face, the fear, plainly laid out for me to see, I couldn't feel anything at all. And the worst part was, I didn't even hate myself for what I had done.
"I'm sorry," I told her, raising my palm to where she huddled, sobbing on the floor. And I was. I was sorry I was capable of doing what I had done. Sorry it had ever had to come to this.
"I'm so, so sorry."
With a flash of white light I was alone in the room.
The walk home was exhausting. I didn't want to fly. I wanted to forget that I was capable of anything that a human wasn't. I wanted to hate myself. God, I wanted to hate myself so badly. But I couldn't.
I felt empty as I walked. My mind hurt as my thoughts raced back and forth. I was a hypocrite. A walking contradiction. What would my mother say? What could she say? I was her son, her own flesh and blood. How could she judge a murderer when she had lain with one to create me? I cursed them both as the wind howled around me.
My mother was awake as I walked through the front door. I wasn't surprised. She had been keeping late hours since the day I was born. There was always something for her to be doing. The devil works on those with idle hands, she would always warn, teasingly. I guess she had been right all along, although somehow I doubted she would take any satisfaction in being right this time.
"Oh, my God," my mother's hand flew to her moth, the plate she had been holding shattering to pieces on the floor.
"Trunks, what happened to you?" she was still standing in the same spot, and I wondered perversely if she was afraid of me just now. Her only son, covered in blood, standing in her kitchen.
"I went to Rina's house tonight," I began, staring into her eyes, blue like the sea; just like my own. I was going to surprise her. But she was the one with all the surprises." And I laughed, a bark of a laugh, my voice hoarse.
"Trunks...I don't..."
"She had a man there, Mom! She fucking had another man there!" I could feel my ki rising, the heat surrounding me, yellow energy burning me hotter and hotter.
My mother never took her eyes off of my face. She was like a deer in headlights, shock plainly written out across her face.
"Trunks," her voice was choked, "Trunks, please tell me that this is some kind of a bad joke."
"I killed him, Mom!" I screamed at her, "I beat him in the face until there wasn't a face there left to beat. And then I kept beating him. I killed a man tonight, Mom. I killed him." And suddenly I was sobbing, and my mother was holding me, pulling me into her arms like it would make everything better.
We stood there like that until my crying stopped,both of us covered in the blood of a man who's name I didn't even know. She pulled back from me then, her hands still locked onto my arms, "Where is Rina?"
I looked at the wall, "I couldn't let her live. She saw it all."
"Look at me Trunks," her tone was hard and I obeyed. I could never ignore the authority in my mother's voice.
"I love you. And I will always love you, no matter what you do. We will never speak of this again and you will burn the clothes you are wearing tonight. Do you understand me?"
"What about the police?" I felt like a child again, letting my mother fix my mistakes.
"I will take care of everything else. Just go change." she released me then and went to the phone. I didn't know who she was dialing as I walked out of the kitchen, and I never asked, either.
As I burned our clothes that night I thought again of my father. Had my mother ever done the same thing for him? No, he would never have come to her. He wouldn't have cared. Did I? I felt empty as I stared into the flames, watching them lick away at the only evidence of my crime.
No. I didn't care about the lives I had taken, only of the pain I had witnessed on my mother's face. I had sworn I would never cause her the same heartache my father had. I had let her down tonight, let her down just like He had.
I was my father's son, whether I liked it or not. I watched the last of the flames die out before slowly making my way to my bed, reluctantly closing my eyes to the world, and opening my mind to the demons that I knew would haunt me until the day I died.