His face was twisted with anger as the knife came down. It tore
into the flesh beneath him, sucking grossly as it was withdrawn, only to
plunge back within the chest cavity again.and again.and again. His mouth
opened. He wanted to say something, but all that came out was a scream.
There seemed to be no end to the scream, and it just went on. To him, it
was an eternity. To the victim, it was over.
Reality crashed down upon him, and he choked on his own breath. His lips parted, then closed again, and he blinked, looking down at the horror drawn on the face below. Tears welled in his eyes, the liquid hanging there for a moment before dribbling down his cheeks in steady streams. He sniffled once, then pushed himself away from the body and got to his feet. Now, he simply stood there, staring down at once living flesh. His chest began to tighten, and sobs bubbled past his lips, his left hand reaching toward the corpse.
"Allah..what have I done..?" His voice was ragged and choked, a hoarse whisper that could only belong to the damned. Was he damned? "Yes.."
He was rooted to the spot. He couldn't move, his body paralysed. After a few deep breaths, he found he could move again, and with a shriek, he launched himself at the man he had just killed. He drove the knife into him, slicing furiously at the body until it was mangled. It didn't look like a body anymore, but some child's sick version of road kill.
"I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I..I...I hate.you."
He was mad. He must be. What else would have made him do this?
"I."He swallowed hard, audibly, leaning on the knife handle and looking into those vacant eyes. "Hate..you..but your eyes.are lovely.and big.yeah.."
He giggled slightly, then tipped his head back and howled with laughter. The sound wasn't happy. It was glass shattering over a hard concrete floor, the laugh of a man gone mad. Straddling his victim, he draw his knees almost to his chest and began rocking back and forth, muttering nonsense to himself. His eyes were glazed and unseeing, and his voice was high-pitched, breathless.
"Quatre Raberba Winner. Quatre Raberba Winner. Quatre Raberba Winner. I am Quatre Raberba Winner..Quatre..I am Quatre..no I'm not. I'm a killer. I'm a fox, I'm a hound, I'm a tiger, I'm a mad man..mad.man? No." Sweat and tears mixed together as they poured down his face. Soon, he stood again after spotting a well taken care of violin on the floor. He walked to it and picked it up, ruining the wood as the blood seeped into it and stained it forever red. Quatre picked up the bow as well, then walks to the couch and sat down. Closing his eyes, he placed the violin under his chin and closed his tortured eyes. He lifted the bow and drew it gently across the strings. A smile brushed over his lips, and then he began to play, losing himself in the music.
Quatre walked home that night. It was far away from the dead man's house, but the fresh air was beginning to bring the Arabic boy back to his senses. He had killed someone. Now he had to figure out why. Was it the stress finally overcoming him, the horror of the war even though it had ended many years ago? Or was he truly going mad, slowly, bit by bit?
"I have to find out why," Quatre said, talking quietly to himself as he turned off the main street and headed down a smaller one. "What is happening to me? What made me do this?" Tear welled in his eyes, and he clutched the violin tighter to his chest, which he had taken from the murder scene because it had his fingerprints on it. The knife was in a sheath that was attached to his waist by a leather belt.
"Hey pretty boy! Over here!"
Quatre's blond head whipped up and around at the sound of the voice. Two large men were walking toward him. Each held a large pipe in their hands.
Allah, no.don't make me kill again. PLEASE. I will do anything!
He let out a ragged sob, then turned and ran, moving his legs as quickly as he could. He didn't want to kill again. Once was already too much for him to handle. He kept the violin and the bow close to him as he bolted down the street. The hard slap of the men's feet behind him drove him on ever faster, his breaths wheezing as he drew air into his tired lungs. They were gaining on him, though. He could hear the footsteps getting louder as they drew closer and closer.
"NO! LEAVE ME ALONE!" He yelled, whirling around and drawing the bloodstained knife from its sheath. He waved it at the men, who stopped and cried out in horror. "Do you want to be next?!! DO YOU?"
The men looked at each other, then turned and ran the other way, back tracking in a hurry. Quatre breathed deeply, then turned and started walking again. He could hardly put one foot in front of the other. His body was so overwhelmed with grief and horror that he couldn't believe he was capable of going on.
With no further trouble, Quatre made it home safe and in one piece. That couldn't be said about his mind, however. Inside his head, the ex gundam pilot was in terrible pain. He had accepted what he had done, but his brain was in pieces. He couldn't think properly, and when he thought at all, he didn't understand anything.
"I'm broken."Quatre whimpered softly. "I'm not.not me anymore."
Reality crashed down upon him, and he choked on his own breath. His lips parted, then closed again, and he blinked, looking down at the horror drawn on the face below. Tears welled in his eyes, the liquid hanging there for a moment before dribbling down his cheeks in steady streams. He sniffled once, then pushed himself away from the body and got to his feet. Now, he simply stood there, staring down at once living flesh. His chest began to tighten, and sobs bubbled past his lips, his left hand reaching toward the corpse.
"Allah..what have I done..?" His voice was ragged and choked, a hoarse whisper that could only belong to the damned. Was he damned? "Yes.."
He was rooted to the spot. He couldn't move, his body paralysed. After a few deep breaths, he found he could move again, and with a shriek, he launched himself at the man he had just killed. He drove the knife into him, slicing furiously at the body until it was mangled. It didn't look like a body anymore, but some child's sick version of road kill.
"I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I..I...I hate.you."
He was mad. He must be. What else would have made him do this?
"I."He swallowed hard, audibly, leaning on the knife handle and looking into those vacant eyes. "Hate..you..but your eyes.are lovely.and big.yeah.."
He giggled slightly, then tipped his head back and howled with laughter. The sound wasn't happy. It was glass shattering over a hard concrete floor, the laugh of a man gone mad. Straddling his victim, he draw his knees almost to his chest and began rocking back and forth, muttering nonsense to himself. His eyes were glazed and unseeing, and his voice was high-pitched, breathless.
"Quatre Raberba Winner. Quatre Raberba Winner. Quatre Raberba Winner. I am Quatre Raberba Winner..Quatre..I am Quatre..no I'm not. I'm a killer. I'm a fox, I'm a hound, I'm a tiger, I'm a mad man..mad.man? No." Sweat and tears mixed together as they poured down his face. Soon, he stood again after spotting a well taken care of violin on the floor. He walked to it and picked it up, ruining the wood as the blood seeped into it and stained it forever red. Quatre picked up the bow as well, then walks to the couch and sat down. Closing his eyes, he placed the violin under his chin and closed his tortured eyes. He lifted the bow and drew it gently across the strings. A smile brushed over his lips, and then he began to play, losing himself in the music.
Quatre walked home that night. It was far away from the dead man's house, but the fresh air was beginning to bring the Arabic boy back to his senses. He had killed someone. Now he had to figure out why. Was it the stress finally overcoming him, the horror of the war even though it had ended many years ago? Or was he truly going mad, slowly, bit by bit?
"I have to find out why," Quatre said, talking quietly to himself as he turned off the main street and headed down a smaller one. "What is happening to me? What made me do this?" Tear welled in his eyes, and he clutched the violin tighter to his chest, which he had taken from the murder scene because it had his fingerprints on it. The knife was in a sheath that was attached to his waist by a leather belt.
"Hey pretty boy! Over here!"
Quatre's blond head whipped up and around at the sound of the voice. Two large men were walking toward him. Each held a large pipe in their hands.
Allah, no.don't make me kill again. PLEASE. I will do anything!
He let out a ragged sob, then turned and ran, moving his legs as quickly as he could. He didn't want to kill again. Once was already too much for him to handle. He kept the violin and the bow close to him as he bolted down the street. The hard slap of the men's feet behind him drove him on ever faster, his breaths wheezing as he drew air into his tired lungs. They were gaining on him, though. He could hear the footsteps getting louder as they drew closer and closer.
"NO! LEAVE ME ALONE!" He yelled, whirling around and drawing the bloodstained knife from its sheath. He waved it at the men, who stopped and cried out in horror. "Do you want to be next?!! DO YOU?"
The men looked at each other, then turned and ran the other way, back tracking in a hurry. Quatre breathed deeply, then turned and started walking again. He could hardly put one foot in front of the other. His body was so overwhelmed with grief and horror that he couldn't believe he was capable of going on.
With no further trouble, Quatre made it home safe and in one piece. That couldn't be said about his mind, however. Inside his head, the ex gundam pilot was in terrible pain. He had accepted what he had done, but his brain was in pieces. He couldn't think properly, and when he thought at all, he didn't understand anything.
"I'm broken."Quatre whimpered softly. "I'm not.not me anymore."