Chapter 11: Reflection of Pain

Somehow, the door opened up onto a platform of the subway station.

Walter didn't question it, and he didn't call out this time. He regarded the room suspiciously, particularly once the door had slammed shut of its own volition and disappeared, and he made sure his weapons were well within reach. He was pretty sure he was walking into a trap.

He really wasn't looking forward to this battle. He was exhausted from their race through the masses of monsters that had blocked the hallway. It had drained him physically as well as psychologically; he had just started to feel better before that, and then they were all there, scuttling and bleeding across the floor, as though trying to swamp him with the memories of his own bloody hands. The battered flesh of the walls hadn't helped. There was a constant pain in his left arm, as well. Even if he and Henry had known what they were doing when they tried to splint his wrist, he still shouldn't have been using it as often as he had. He had a tiny sliver of hope that his mother really was here, and they could simply leave, but he didn't expect that.

There was nothing in the area to call attention to itself, but he remembered how normal the apartment room had appeared at first. The trains nearby were still and dormant, and everything was quiet except for the soft humming of the lights. The whispering of his name had stopped entirely.

He almost missed the figure leaning against the wall, until it moved.

For a moment, it looked almost normal, and then it flickered, shifting into something else. He remembered the shout that had tried to turn them back, and whose voice he had thought it was, even if Henry said he didn't recognize it. He knew, now, that he had been right.

The monster walking towards him was undeniably female. A twisting curtain of black hair was its only covering, barely concealing curves that would have been sensuous, if not for the pallid, sickly appearance of the flesh. Streaks of blood added color to the skin, from the thin legs that carried it jerkily towards him, to the edges of the hands that were transformed, impossibly, into pale knives. It was bent backwards into a painful position, but its head was up, staring at him. As monstrous as the rest of the apparition was, the eyes were still human.

The eyes were still Cynthia Velasquez's eyes.

He raised the handgun and hesitated. He didn't like this. He didn't like it at all. It was bad enough that he'd had to deal with the other monsters in the subway. Gliding along with their tattered skin, looking for all the world like they were wearing black robes of the Order, he had thought of them as the Priests from the moment he first saw them. Stone, Rosten, and Archbolt, coming back to haunt him, and all the while, the walls themselves reminded him that he'd had no more right to kill them than he had the others.

Now, it was her.

It wasn't the same as with them, or at least, no one would view it as being the same. What was her crime? Dashing the confused hopes of a teenager in the subway station was hardly something that could compare against the actions of the priests of the Order or the prison guards. And yet…

He had hated her for the way she had made him feel. He'd hated her with an intensity that collapsed upon itself and ran into his distorted feelings for his true mother, then exploded all over again when he tried to deal with females throughout the years. By the time he had reached her on the list of the 21 Sacraments, he had known that she would be the one who was hurt when they met again.

The monster was still coming towards him. That was what he had to keep in mind, that it was a monster. What was in the past was in the past, and he couldn't do anything about it now. This thing was just an abomination created from his memories, and it was going to kill him.

He fired the gun.

The bullet hit, and blood flew, but the creature faltered only slightly. He shot a second time and darted to the side, wanting to have space behind him to move. He would kill this thing with the handgun if he could, keeping out of the range of those knife-hands.

For a while, they fell into a pattern. He would shoot, and move out of the way as it approached him. Once he was in the clear, he would shoot again. It seemed to be working, and since he saw nothing else in the room that could cause him difficulty, he felt more confident about the battle.

Then the monster began to scream. It was a high, unearthly shriek it let out, making his head feel like it was about to split apart. He resisted the urge to clap his hands over his ears, deciding that enduring the pain had to be a better option than accidentally dropping his weapons. Still, it didn't relent, and his concentration wavered.

It was enough for it to reach him. In a flurry of motion, it attacked, once-delicate hands slicing into his chest. He pulled away before too much damage could be done, but blood was already seeping into his clothing. He retaliated by shooting it. He might have had enough time for a second shot, but he was put off by the way it was looking at him with those too-human eyes.

Stop it! Just kill it!

He dropped beneath its questing arms and rolled out of the way. He moved to a safer area, reloading the gun as he did so. Some troubled part of his mind couldn't help but ask if he was counseling the action he was because it was a monster, or because he had killed before and easily could again.

That doesn't matter now!

Frustrated, he shot the monster several times in succession. He hated this, and everything about it. Unfortunately, while shooting rapidly eased his anger, it allowed the creature to close the distance between them again. Once more, the blades flew rapidly towards him.

He noticed there was no easy way to evade it, and in one fluid motion, he put away his gun and pulled out the steel pipe. Holding it like one might hold a quarterstaff, he parried. He almost expected the blades to bend, as though they really were hands, but they met the pipe with force and pulled away to strike somewhere else.

Keeping his two-handed grip on the pipe, he spun it as necessary to counter the monster's attacks. His left hand protested the entire time, but he forced himself to keep it up. One blade escaped his attention, sneaking through his defenses to nick his shoulder; he countered by driving the pipe up under the creature's chin.

It screamed in pain, and then it transformed that cry into another wail like the one before. It paused only a second, and then it came at him again, still screaming as the knives flurried.

His parries were weaker this time, as the sound pounded at his skull and tried to force him to submit. Grimly seeing how it was trying to overcome him, he let the pipe drop from his hands and grabbed the monster's arms instead. He grappled with it, keeping its hands away from where they could do damage.

The monster toppled backwards, and he let momentum carry him with it. He was bigger than it, and as long as he could keep the knives away from him, he would have the advantage in a close-quarters fight. As they crashed to the floor, he felt his left arm begin to weaken. Pain was lancing through it, and he knew he couldn't keep the monster pinned like this forever.

He held the monster down, using his weight to keep it where it was. He stared down at it as it struggled and screamed, looking at the knives and wishing it were a normal opponent that he could at least disarm.

Disarm…

He pulled himself forward until he was able to straddle the creature, kneeling on its arms instead of holding them. Letting go of its wrists allowed it to begin stabbing at the sides of his legs, but it didn't have enough room to reach anywhere else. He ignored the cuts it was making, and reached into his coat for the knife Henry had given him earlier to open the can of light bulbs with.

Pulling it out, he grabbed its wrist again with his aching left hand, and with his right hand stabbed the knife down into the monster's arm. Its scream became a cry of pain, as he began to hack at its flesh. It was grisly, but necessary. He felt the knife hit bone and knew he had enough strength to ensure the monster lost one of its weapons.

He saw her at the end of the hallway. She turned around when she saw him, and her eyes narrowed in surprise. There was no recognition in her face. Of course, she wouldn't remember him. Why would she? But he had never forgotten her, not once in all the years since he had tried speaking to her.

He pulled out his knife and looked at the way the blade glinted in the dim lighting of the subway station. A smile made its way to his lips. He would give Cynthia something to…remember.

Walter's breath caught at how vivid the memory was, playing so clearly in his mind that reality around him had seemed to fade for a moment. The monster, noticing his distraction, began to struggle harder, slicing viciously with its free arm. He renewed his efforts on the first arm. He couldn't afford to start thinking about things like that now!

No matter how easily they were coming to mind, especially with the creature watching him with her hate-filled eyes…

Her eyes widened in fear. She had seen the knife, then, he assumed. She turned and ran. He waited a minute, wanting her to falsely think she had a chance. Then he began to run as well, giving chase through the subway.

Some distance ahead, she had stopped. She was shouting for help from someone, and he remembered that the Receiver of Wisdom, Henry Townshend, was here, as well. He was too far away, though; he would never make it in time to help her.

"Cynthia," he whispered.

She turned and saw him. For a moment, they stared at each other. Then he took a step forward, and she began running again.

He got the creature's arm off with some difficulty. His hands were covered in blood, and he realized he was breathing harder than he should have been. His breaths were coming too quickly, as a part of his mind cried out in horror and revulsion at the surfacing memory.

He tried to steady himself, aware that he was losing a lot of blood from the monster's repeated attacks on his leg. He switched the knife into his left hand, reached down, and forced its blade away from him.

She couldn't run fast in her high heels, and he quickly overcame her. She screamed as he caught up with her and reached around with one hand to hold her fast, pressing the knife against the back of her neck with the other.

Cynthia turned around to face him at his coaxing. She kept a brave face on, despite the cold blade at her throat. He regarded her, victim 16, his Temptation, beautiful Cynthia, and part of him wished things could be different. Part of him wondered if things still could be.

He pushed that thought away with cold ease that had developed over the years. He could afford no such thoughts, not if he was going to be with Mother again.

"Who are you?" she asked, keeping her voice steady, as though she still thought she might gain control over the situation.

"My name's Walter Sullivan." He smiled and dug the blade in against her skin, just slightly. "I spoke to you once before."

If she remembered him now, he wasn't sure anymore. Her voice shook this time when she spoke. "What do you want?"

He continued to smile silently for a few moments, as though he were thinking about his answer. He withdrew the knife from her throat, still holding her fast. He wanted her to feel that same uncertainty, where fear begins to give way to an edge of hope, as he had felt upon speaking to her for the first time. There had been a moment when he had been certain—certain!—that she felt something for him, that his trembling effort would be rewarded by kindness.

He remembered her cruelty and drove the knife viciously into her stomach. "I want you to die," he finally answered.

As he struggled to clear his mind of the terrible images, the monster—or am I the monster? a part of his mind screamed in confusion—took advantage of it and broke free of his grip. It wasn't screaming anymore, but his head hurt just as badly as if it was. He tried to get to his feet, wondering where his knife was and when he had dropped it.

He blinked several times, hoping to clear his vision at the very least. What he saw was the monster lurching towards him, swinging its good arm with a manic fury. He fumbled for his pipe and remembered that he had dropped it earlier.

The monster's hand struck his face, cutting a gash down his forehead. Warm blood began to trickle into his eye.

Cynthia gasped and screamed in pain as he pulled the knife free. Her blood dripped onto the floor. She tried to get away, but he stabbed her a second time. Staggering backwards, she fell to the floor.

He was already there, catching her almost as though there truly was something between them. He knelt, holding her against him and supporting her head with his hand. She was so warm. She coughed, and blood came out.

"Let me go," she whispered weakly. "I'll…I'll…"

He pressed the knife against her cheek and shook his head. "There's nothing you can do."

Reaching up, he tried to wipe the blood out of his eye, but the monster was still there, knife flying. It attacked him like a possessed thing, as he desperately tried to remember what weapons he still had.

Handgun, he still had the handgun somewhere in his coat. He tried to reach for it, but instead had to throw out his arms for balance, as he nearly fell backwards. The pain was becoming too much; he was starting to feel dizzy.

He reached into the almost-forgotten backpack instead. They had packed enough things, after all, and surely one of those ampoules would help in the immediate future.

He took the knife in a deadly trail down her cheek, under her chin, and lower onto her throat. She was shaking, but she was too weak to put up any sort of struggle now. Occasionally her mouth moved, but he only had to look into her eyes for her to leave her plea unspoken.

The knife reached the curve of her breast and he stopped, letting the point linger there. Her breath caught sharply, and she began to speak again.

He didn't wait to see what she had thought of to move him this time. He drove the knife in to make the first cut, and her words became a cry of pain.

1…

He started on the six and noticed that Cynthia was sobbing now, tears of pain and fear mingling with her blood. When he had finished carving the numbers marking her as one of his Sacraments, he stared into her face again. For just a moment, he wondered how things might have been, if she had reacted to him differently all those years ago. If she had accepted him...offered him at least a hand of friendship.

Then he remembered how she had reacted, and the things she had said to him, and he stabbed the knife into her chest. She screamed, and he pulled it out again. He had hurt so terribly after she rejected him, feeling the burn of her words for days, feeling worthless and entirely unloved; he had ached inside so completely that it was nearly a physical pain, tearing him apart; the only thing that could ever, ever make it right again was if she felt the same degree of pain.

He stabbed her again, and then again. Over and over again, he drove the blade into her. Blood flew everywhere, and he realized that they both were weeping now. Pain, he wanted her to feel the pain that he had felt; he would hurt her until there was no doubt that she had felt it. These thoughts filled his mind with a red haze as he viciously completed his task.

She was still alive, but he pushed her away from him at last, letting her drop to the ground. Now, she would lie there and suffer in the final, agonizing minutes of her life. He hoped she had finally remembered him.

He turned around and walked away without a backward glance. Sixteen down. The end was near.

The stab of the needle and dangerous surge of adrenaline snapped Walter back to reality. He found the handgun at last and shot the monster. It tried to attack, but he kept shooting. He would kill it. He had to kill it.

Just when he thought that it wouldn't be enough, and that he would die here, killed by the creature's remaining knife, it staggered backwards. He shot it once more, and it fell backwards. In death, its eyes did not look so much like Cynthia's, and he was able to retreat somewhat from the memory of murdering her.

Then mocking laughter reached his ears, and he shuddered, not even trying to find its source this time. Whoever it was, they knew what he had done, didn't they? That was why they laughed at him, as he dreamed of atoning.

The door had reappeared. Walter located his knife and pipe, grabbing them both, and then he staggered gratefully over to the door. He had to live…although why, he was not quite sure.

To find Mother.

He nodded to himself. That sounded like a good reason to live. She was waiting for him, after all. He would find her, and then, somehow, everything would be all right.

There had been another reason, too, hadn't there?

Then he remembered. It had been the dream of redemption. Henry thought it was possible, after all that had happened, for him to redeem himself.

Cynthia's screamed echoed in his memory, along with the terrifying rush of hatred and brutality he had felt. Redemption?

Walter was no longer sure.