~*Chapter Seven*~
Quatre; after bidding the edgy Irishman a fond good night with a gentle kiss and a warm smile, headed up through the poorhouse and up to his room, closing the door tightly behind him. He too, also feared for his and the others' lives; what if the murderer was to come back in the middle of the night with his ragged dagger of bloody vengeance. The doctor shook his head and sat upon his bed, not really feeling tired just yet, and let his nimble mind wander. The sun had long gone down under the city's jagged horizon, and now the stars were out, visible through the fogged mirror in his room. He ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts strangely settling on Duo's words that had been spoken previously.
"One of us?" Quatre asked aloud. "What on Earth had he meant by "One of us"?" He wondered also why the Irishman had been so strangely edgy that afternoon; it was as though the murderer had been standing right behind Quatre, or like Quatre himself was the murderer. The doctor inadvertently chuckled at the thought; he was no ruthless murderer that lusted for the scent and sight of blood. And yet, he couldn't shake the horrid sights of the mutilated bodies that he had seen from his thoughts; as though the atrocious deeds had been forever imprinted in his mind. And yet, the sights had not even bothered him that much; as though he had been desensitized by the whole affair. That bothered him more than anything else.
The night wore on, and Quatre simply couldn't find his fatigue. The police would be there in a few hours for questioning, and then the killer would be revealed; and perhaps this whole affair would be over. Duo would tell who was behind this bloodbath; and it would all be over for he who had dared to trail Quatre.
A chill ran up the doctor's back at this thought; and he turned quickly, sensing a danger around him. The window was closed as was his door, and there was no way the slayer was able to get in. But he still couldn't shake the sensation that he was close…very very close. But it would all be over soon; he could rest easy in the fact of that.
"Don't let it happen…it will be all over for you if you do…kill the Irishman before he lets out the secret…" came a soft thought, wafting through the doctor's mind. Quatre blinked and shook his head; he had hoped that it wouldn't come to this. He clutched his head in fear, lowering his gaze.
"No…not tonight…please, God, don't let it happen tonight!" He felt the pounding headaches inside his brain; the heat pulsated all over him. The sensation always was the same; painful and slow. "I can't! No more, no more murdering, no more blood on my hands!" He cried out in agony as the searing pain split through his skull; causing him to see red. Ever since Zechs had taunted him with such jealousy and spite all those years ago, Quatre had vowed a secret vengeance…sadly though, what began as a small murder became an obsession, a want of blood and a thirst for the kill that was never satisfied. He had become two persons, neither having a complete memory between the two. He had killed men, women, and children even! And now it had come to this; a last fight for the complete control over the doctor's mind. The urges never lasted for long, but it was always the shorter ones that were more violent; lustier for blood. But this time, he prayed that he might be strong enough to rid himself of his inner torment once and for all. He had kept up his charade well; for this he was proud. However, even as he fought, he knew it was a futile effort. He screamed out again in insane agony as scenes of his atrocious slayings flashed across his memory; running red with blood. This was the worst he had even experienced the pain; the sheer anguish of it all. He prayed that the pain might kill him before he might kill again, but to no avail.
He fell to the floor, clutching his head and stomach, crying out to God for redemption, and then his calls were silenced as he collapsed to the floor, heaving heavy breaths; the sweat dripping from his brow. Slowly, he regained his breath, staggering to his feet. His eyes had lost their caring luster; replaced with a dull gleam of malice that is was like a demon had taken over his mind. Slowly, he strode over to his dresser, opening his small satchel and began to spread things across his dresser, choosing an appropriate death weapon for his latest kill. He sifted through his medical supplies, finally removing a sharp, long scalpel and a few smaller blades, clean and gleaming of impending death. Silently, he hid the instruments within the folds of his rumpled waistcoat and stepped silently out of his room, closing the door silently behind him. He had one last thing to accomplish.
