"What do you make of this?"
Fucking weasel in a white coat.
Incompetent. Just like the rest of them.
My fists tighten. I don't respond. I just drop my cigarette butt to the tile floor and snuff it out with my foot as I make my way around the corpse of the nurse.
"The other patients have been secured?" I ask.
"Whole place is on lock down," he sighs. "Nobody's even allowed to leave their beds."
Kneel down next to the lifeless form. Pry the pen out of her neck and examine it, rolling it around between my gloved index finger and thumb.
"Make sure it stays that way until the window in the office is fixed and barred."
"This won't happen again, sir," he says. A hint of desperation in his voice. "I assure you, I-"
"I know it won't," I tell him. "But not letting it happen again doesn't change the fact that it's already happened. Get your shit together."
He shuts up and looks at his feet. I can see him out of the corner of my eye.
Fingers grazing across the dried blood on the floor. Dark brown on hard white. A stain on perfection; something every mortal being inevitably becomes.
Time is running out.
Drop the murder weapon and turn to leave.
"Wait," he calls out to me. "What about the mess?"
"The police will be here shortly," I say, walking away. "They'll take care of it."
"Sonic," he says. "Is it true that you know the patient?"
Stop.
Fists tightening once again. Eyes close by themselves and it takes everything in me to keep my hands from shaking.
"Yeah, I know him," I say. "I'm the one who put him in here."
It's raining.
It has been all day. Seems almost cliché, when you think about it. I try not to think about the clichés in life that surround me too much. But, it can't be helped.
With a little luck, there will be a flood to wash all of this filth away.
Drown this whole city, and sink it to oblivion.
Tear these insignificant termites away.
Bleed these poor fools for all that they're worth and erase their existence.
That's what I want.
That's what I wish for.
That's what I pray for.
Every time I see a falling star.
Every time it's 11:11.
Every time I find a fallen eyelash.
Every time I blow my candles out.
I wish for destruction.
I wish for death.
I wish for oblivion.
I wish for omission.
I wish they all would die, and I could be the few, the proud standing amongst the rubble saying that I tried to save these cretins. Even though I really didn't want them to live.
This is what I am. This is what I hope for.
I take a small break under the sign of an abandoned drugstore, to light a cigarette. Watching the rain pelt hard against the empty streets, occasionally splashing against my already drenched form. It's cold, but you get used to it. You get used to what's regular.
Inhale a lungful of death due to how displeased I am with the world around me.
So, Miles Prower has escaped. The crazy fucker.
Somehow, I always knew this would happen. He was the only person I've ever met who ever had the potential to match me in skill, speed and power. Not even Princess Sally, that cunt, but she has the manpower behind her for protection.
The insane, vengeful prick. I wonder what he's up to. I wonder what his plans are.
I wonder what he's doing. What he's been thinking.
I did what I did because I had to. He posed a threat to the way of life I'm trying to influence upon our people. Not that I agree with Sally's current plan for us. I had higher expectations for where she's going. What she's doing. I remain disappointed.
What this city needs isn't Sally Acorn. It's Sonic. It's me.
I am what this city needs. I have been what this city has needed all along.
Inhale and toss the burning filter into the river that has currently become of the gutter. Watch it wash away into the nearby drainpipe.
I will be where I need to be soon. Perhaps this is the push I needed to make it happen.
"Hey," the shopkeeper shouts, as he runs down the strip mall, desperately clutching his brown paper sack. Something clicks in my brain, as he takes a right down an alleyway I'm not too familiar with. It doesn't take much to catch up to him - the world turns into a blur around me until I catch up to him, grabbing him by the collar.
His brown paper sack dropping to the floor. Cans of food spilling out of it, breaking, rolling down the desolate alleyway.
Only you, me, a brick wall, a dumpster to my front-left. I grab you by the neck.
A scrawny cat with desperation in your eyes.
"I'm sorry," you say. "Please."
For some reason, I picture Miles in your place, and I get angry.
Hand moves from your collar to your neck.
"No, please," you say. "Stop," you choke out.
My hand tightens. Squeezes. Your hands tightly clutch mine, trying to pull it away.
Haha.
Fist clenches around his neck, and the other hand adds to it. I bring him down to the cold, hard cement. His eyes wide, full of fear. Poor bastard doesn't even see what's coming to him.
His lips move, but he doesn't speak. They spell out I'M SORRY, but I don't have the fuck to give.
Once his eyes roll back into his head, cold and lifeless, I can't bring myself to care.
His skin turns cold and blue, and I don't care.
I can only smile.
His eyes close, and I can't help but squeeze tighter and laugh. You're nothing to me. Just another ant I've stepped on.
I rise above your cold, lifeless form, and my eyes drift to your paper bag. Cans outlined by the soaked brown paper that surrounded them. Too poor to buy food, too lazy to work to buy it.
I think of Miles, and where he is. What he's doing. What he has planned.
I hear the angry merchant approaching. Trying to chase down what he's lost.
As is footsteps echo close to the alleyway, I can't help but picture Miles.
Waiting. Watching. Consuming. Becoming stronger. Faster. Better.
Before the pitiful merchant reaches the alleyway, I am gone.
I'll leave this mess for the cops to pick up.
To figure out.
