aeson kight [d6] ~ fin

{I think I lost my mind a while ago
'Cause I've been seeing some ghosts
And I'd be lying if I told you I'm fine}

_____

"There's a special place in hell for people like you."

It's been eighteen years, why has no one sent you there? The last man was defiant, scripture based on question morality dripped from his chin like acid until your fingers closed around the fabrics in his collar and your fist dug into his throat and your elbow into his solar plexis."Then take me to it." You would whisper, daring him to at least try and send you to the place madmen loved to rave about when on death's door. They called your gaze piercing, like a knife fashioned from ice dug into their gut and you'd twist until you found the right parts.

(Be thankful it's only my eyes)

You always tempted fate, dared them to send you to that special place in hell waiting for you but they never did. So you cut their throats, turning caustic venom to blood in your hands with the simply flick of your knife-wielding wrist. "Ooops." The first few time you mistook their bodies hitting the ground for the sky collapsing. Stars and fragments of the heavens falling at terminal velocity and forming galaxies when they hit the ground. Worlds could revolve around you in the moments you ended lives and shattered dreams -- you are a galaxy.

So, why do people fuck with you?

Idiots call it bravery when they fight back. "You're not getting a fucking dime--" they ever finish their sentences before they let their fists fly. You tended to be met with a fist to the jaw the first few times, hell, the first few times you would've gotten your ass kicked if you didn't have the grace of numbers on your side. The end result was the same, a junkie with a broken skull or a slit throat in an alleyway. "Don't fuck with me." You'd usually whisper before consciousness slipped from their grasp.

You never called it bravery, you called it stupidity.

You've learned to stop speculating why people fuck with you, your adopted mother answered it for you when you were sixteen.

("Because the desperate people always go for the weak ones."

"But I'm not weak."

"Then prove it.")

When she spoke her words like scripture, you were anchored to the reality that you were not magnificent, you were maleficent. The word may as well have been tattooed across your forehead with the way you dark eyes froze holes into people when the chains of your wroth took hold around your ankles and your veins. When you glared, you shot daggers fashioned from ice and watched them sink into their writhing and simply twist and turn.

"Would it kill you to smile once in a while?"

Your dark hair's medium length, sometimes forming bangs over your forehead. Other gang members said it made you look a bit like a school boy when you were younger, now they don't say it to your face. Your strong jawline remains clean shaven, your adopted mother made sure you never let you appearance slack or slip, she made sure you understood the virtues of keeping a neat appearance -- even if it never lasted throughout the whole day. She asks the same of your sister, you never thought to take note of how well she takes on the criticism (who the fuck even cares anymore?)

It doesn't matter whether you're rags or riches when there's a blade pressed against your throat after all. When dwelling within the shadow of desperation, everyone's the same shade of darkness whether they've come from rags or riches. You journeyed forwards and it's obvious, before you were seven you and your sister could count your ribs poking through your skin. Now, you've forgotten what it means to be hungry; you're well-toned and filled out. When you go to that special place in hell with your name on it, you can be content that it wasn't from starvation.

You're not bulky, you're lean and fast. When entangled in the desperate struggle of a dying man long overdue on his payment, you do not overpower him. "You're already dead." You whisper, sidestepping his desperate lunges before sinking the blade into him. You were always slimmer than other men, you even only stand at 6'0 but speed and agility makes you lethal. A mistimed desperate lunge for you is the last mistake anyone makes.

Blood on your blade and body, a corpse at your feet. "That's why you don't fuck with me."

It's a bit sad really, a special place in hell reserved for you with your name on it, and some washed up junkie has seen it before you.

(Do you even believe in eternal damnation?)

Your mother and father did. Rather than food, they fed you scripture and made you drink gospel and you and your sister suffered for it. In hindsight, you should've realized the madness that laid behind their method sooner. "Excessive food is gluttony and gluttony is sinful." So the four of your starved, eating the bare essentials and praying at daylight. You memorized the words, a bright six year old you were, but you never understood the scripture that you quoted or scrawled words you read from those pages. All you know is that you hated being hungry and you hated being forced to read from that damned holy book while you were hungry. You memorized the words as long as it would get you food, not because it would save your soul or whatever.

Still, your parents smiled and nodded on. It quickly became apparent that you and your sister weren't the only victim of their zealous delusions. You remember the the strange people they continued to bring round your house, tangled hair and ragged beards. You were stowed away in your room, you and your sister while they brought out holy scriptures and drew sacrificial circles in the ground. You never dared to peek out, only listened and pressed your ear against the wall.

"Oh ripred we pray..."

"Give us the strength..."

"Holy walls and save our souls..."

Until one day, your parents left with their group and never came back.

The peacekeepers found you less than a day later. The orphanage was quick to become your home, and while you never understood where your parents went then, now you know it was the end result of a suicide pact. But back then, all you and your sister knew was that you didn't have parents anymore and somehow that didn't bother you. You knew the orphanage for six months and you were seven when she found you.

"I always wanted children, I'll take 'em! They're oh-so cute!"

Blonde busty woman with a cigarette packet, red lips and sunglasses -- no older than forty for sure.. Clearly wealthy from well, doing something. You called her for what she was, you never called her mother -even though she preferred it- she was just Ava. She signed the papers and they signed you over to her, you went home with her that night. You think the orphanage were just glad to get rid of you; six months and you'd bruised your knuckles and skin in mre fights than you could count.

All that scripture you read told you the value of preserving bodies, Ava and her kinsman taught you to break them once you were old enough. This woman's family dealt in drugs and violence and you lived for it. You bruised your knuckles, carried knives and knuckle dusters -- violence just runs through your veins. It molded you into whatever this is as the years left you worn down and weathered. You and your sister took their last name Kight and now you're anchored to a universe of violence and bloodshed. The head of it all barely ever talks to you, Ava's father (your grandfather) and you remember him rolling his eyes when she came home with you and your sister.

Not that you really cared, you do his dirty work anyway.

The rest of the family steps with caution around you, they know you're fucked up and you've got a large tendency towards violence. You don't let them see anything that lies beneath, not the memory of your old family devouring you from the inside out and certainly not what the years of starvation did to you. You say it how it is, call things stupid when they're stupid and sneer when you're challenged. "Of course Ava picked the crazy one." Guess your uncles, aunts and cousins better deal with it.

She smiles at you sometimes, honey tongue and red lips with a cigarette between her teeth and fuck she knows you enjoy it and she loves calling you weak and seeing what you'll do to the next man they send you after buried deep in debt. Weapons have become an extension of your arm and you're all too used to listening to bones snap, ribs crumple and skin split. "Don't fuck with me."

You're terrifying and that washed up junkie holding onto his withering sanity always knows it. "There's a special place in hell for people like you."

You wonder if they're waiting for you there; everyone's too much of a fucking pussy to show you.