The blood that trickled from my arm slid down my forearm and pooled on the dull dirt encrusted counter on which I performed my "ritual."
A wound for every memory, blood for blood, scar for scar. The rules of my life. I was born in blood, I live in blood, and I will die in blood. It is my destiny. I make myself bleed for every life I have taken and every person I owe blood to.
This new cut. This new pain covered old pain which overlaid the mental scars of my life. The scars of a life lived in pain, booze, and women. A life not lived but stumbled through but not forgotten.
I counted the scars on my arm. I must have over one hundred. I could hardly remember who which scar was for but there were four that I would never forget. The longest , from elbow to wrist was for my sister , Andromeda. Whose blood had been innocent and was spilt because of my youthful stupidity. The next , shorter but more jagged was for my father. Not my real father , whose fist hardened me for the life on the streets to come but for Tseng , my Turk father. The man that had practically raised me. He had taught me the art of killing , not to survive , but in cold blood as an assassin. He had made me and his death had unmade me. The third , a cut with less length but more memories. Good and bad. This one was for my gang. My brothers. The Red Skulls. I still had the small red skull tattooed on my right wrist. I had led them. I had been the boss. Tough as nails and as viscious as a cobra. This description had gained me power but it earned my sister an early death. Ahhh...the fourth scar , deeper than the rest. It had earned me a stay in the hospital. This was for the one person that could rival Tseng in influence on my life. Rude. He had been anything but that. He had been quiet , cool , strong , and most Turk-ish , emotionless. He had been killed by me. He had given his life for the life of his love. She had been beautiful and the antithesis of a Turk , kind , caring , sympathetic , nuturing , all these things and more. She had also been the enemy.
Memories , past , pain. These words are synonimous for me. Thinking brought back all the memories I had tried to kill by murdering innocent braincells. This pain was too much and life held too little. This cutting method didn't work either. I could find final solice in the cold steel of my gun. It's perfect weight , its sleek shape , the barrel's smokey smell. All were a comfort. That is why I could easily put it in my mouth.
No voices tried to discourage me , no faces of loved ones came to mind. I had none. this was my final justice. No more pain or memories. I'm goin' to meet my friends. I'm gonna take my chance in purgatory.