It was raining in the city centre. No, raining is a poor way to describe the downpour that was flooding roads and clogging the drainpipes. Lightning flashed overhead, followed seconds later by the boom of thunder. In a dark, dank alleyway of the old industrial quarter, a lone figure stood. He wore an old leather jacket over a plain, tattered blue T-shirt. On his head was a battered baseball cap. His trousers had been new once, but now they were as torn and worn as the rest of his clothing. The rain poured off him in rivers, but he didn't seem to notice. His hair, the colour of coal dust, was slick with the water, and his pale face was angled downwards. It was finally time to get it over with.
Slowly, he reached into his jacket pocket and drew out a long, serrated knife, the sort of ones used to shear through bone. With his other hand, he reached up and removed his cap. Barely visible among his jet black curls were two small protrusions of bone. The boy gritted his teeth. He knew what he had to do. He placed the knife against the side of one of the bony plates, hesitated, then started to cut. As soon as he had started, pain exploded into his head, almost making him vomit with its intensity. He pressed harder, feeling the blood streaming down into his hair and down the back of his neck. It was excruciating, but his will prevailed, and the small horn fell to the floor with a clatter.
The boy felt for where the horn had been. When his hand was withdrawn, it was covered in dark red blood. The pain had receded, replaced by the dull throbbing of a bad migraine. He took a long, deep breath, and then began on the other horn. More pain came, and he really did vomit this time. He began to feel weak and disoriented. Why the hell was he doing this in the first place? It would be so much easier to give in. To give to the demon inside him. To tear off his humanity with a bloodcurdling scream and become a killing machine without pity or remorse. But no, that would be running away. That was the easy path. The demon inside him would not claim him, as it had claimed so many of his brothers and sisters.
The second horn was gone now, and the figure slumped down, lying against a nearby dumpster. Oh, David, he thought, what have you done? You'll probably die of blood loss now. Ah, well, I suppose it would be better that I suffer…than other people…
Weak from his wounds and tired from his escape from the facility on the island, David crawled underneath the dumpster and fell asleep. Little did he know that his troubles were only beginning…