(Contains graphic violence, blood, psychological distress and morally ambiguous themes. Viewers discretion is advised.)
~But, darling, it's not a blood bath if there isn't any blood.~
There's a pool of dark crimson spiralling down the sink, and a pair of lonely soaking black gloves laying just at the very edge. There's a metallic scent lingering faintly in the air, and fingers squeaking against each other as they scrubbed harshly. A tedious struggle to rinse off every spec of this bastard's blood from my fingers.
How stupid of him to even harbor the thought of bringing my mother into a fight and expected to have emerged unscathed. Who was the dead one now?
A faint smirk twisted my lips and I chuckled, savoring the blood rushing through my veins as my heart thudded pleasantly. My mind replayed the scene over and over; each crunching blow, my dagger plunging so deep into his gut, the momentary fear that struck his features, and oh, how his arrogance had broken, diminished into petrification so quick, so fast. The way he had so pathetically begged me to spare his pitiful life, to spare him from a second thrust of my merciless dagger.
Ohh, the blood, the supposed heart wrenching scream that failed to wrench my heart—goodness! The blood.
The blood.
The blood.
The blood.
The pool it formed was so gorgeous, so pretty.
I threw my head back and barked out another deep laughter, one that most of my victims - precisely targets - perceived as maniacal. I never saw it that way, to me it was a laughter of pure enjoyment. How then did it seem maniacal? Strange victims—targets.
I rolled my eyes.
Tch.
I was perfectly sane.
My smirk turned into a smile, a smile now spreading to a full blown grin. Time to tell Tobias.
I needed to write this down. I had
to tell Tobias.
I rushed to my room, searching for my journal in the drawers of my cream coloured bedside table.
When I sighted it, I snatched it, frowning when I couldn't find the pen that was supposed to be in between the pages.
Bellowing, my eyes scanned for the pen. I spotted it laying against my bed, just waiting to be used.
I picked it up and shifted into a writing position, fingers flipping through the chapped pages until I turned a blank page. I set the tip of the pen unto the yellowing paper and paused to replay the scene so I could get everything down accurately.
But as I replayed it, there was neither relish nor enjoyment.
The adrenaline had faded.
Shit.
My chest tightened, my heart thumped wildly - this time for an unpleasant reason. My strangled breathing filled the room. A suffocating feeling forced me out of the house in haste.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
What was I thinking?
Dark hood pulled over my head, my feet sprinted down the dark streets, coat swooshing furiously behind me as the cold air bit into my skin.
What was I thinking? What was I thinking? What the fuck was I thinking?
Loud blaring sirens and panicked voices didn't fail to cut through the thick silence soon.
I inched towards the grim scenery, making certain to remain hidden behind the battered cement fence, then I squeezed my vision through a crack to take a peak.
A bloodied and bruised body is sprawled across a stretcher. Unintelligible blubber and groans spilled from it's lips.
My heart unclenched with relief.
Of course the bastard was alive. Now that the lack of adrenaline had me sobered up, I noticed that my sloppy plunge had merely created a minor stab wound at his gut, not enough to penetrate a major organ.
It made me wonder why I hadn't stabbed deep enough in the first place. Dumb luck, perhaps. Very misplaced shared luck for the both of us, or perhaps I needed a refresher on human anatomy.
At the side revealed a few persons explaining the grim occurrence to the paramedics. One really shitty individual attempted to give my description to the police. Key word being attempted.
He probably thought himself the shit for his heroic display of narrating a glimpse of what everyone saw, even adding a few features that I had never even come to possess in my life.
Dark skin. Dreads. Some weird explanation of a made up gang tattoo.
The racial equality is strong in this one.
Though I was cladded in a lengthy hooded coat and my overgrown fringes had masked most of my features, I was certain the colour of my fists were clear.
The other people pinned him with strange looks and a skimpy dressed girl shoved him aside.
"I'm telling you, babe, he was bla—"
"Ignore him sir, he's had too much to drink."
The officer pinched his brows in exasperation. "Anyone with an accurate description?"
"Distinct colored eyes," a sharp voice that held certainty spoke.
"Distinct?"
"Hazel and grey."
That was it, a heavy description that differed me from the crowd. It was the first feature anyone would notice at a glance. A hindrance from fully blending in.
Asides that vague description there was nothing else...strong enough.
"He was wearing a coat—"
I'll be sure to burn the bloody coat.
"—and a pair of dark pants."
Add them to the list.
I relished in the state my identity was unclear, the lack of evidence. It could never be traced back.
I left no fingerprints, no blood - well, none that belonged to me, of course, no security camera footage, even if there was it would be provided useless, offering little to no identity to my thoroughly concealed features.
Gloves had covered my hands at the time - gloves always covered my hands - and the coward never hit hard enough, hard enough to have actually ruptured my skin.
How depressing it would be for his ego when he's unable to find me despite who he claimed his father was.
What a waste of time.
Straightening up, I started up the long street, only now noticing the distance between here and my home.
I left a free man.
A free man who hadn't thought of the weight of his decisions, the effect it would have on the hood if ever I was found.
The effect it would have on me.
World's renowned assassin caught in a bar. And it wasn't even the expensive kind.
My enemies would laugh, my accomplices would laugh, the hood would laugh. In fact, I bet Satan would laugh from below.
World's renowned failure.
Jail didn't seem like a pretty place for someone like me. Or probably for someone like anyone.
I clenched the pole of a dim streetlight, the light bathed my skin and cast a dark lanky shadow onto the ground. My fingers clinched fistfuls of locks, pulling, tugging and finally running harshly through the tousled hair.
Groaning, I released the scattered locks, realizing a damaged hair would give no answer to my uncharacteristic like manner.
I dropped my gaze to my naked palms, they stared back at me, pale and deceitfully clean.
But I knew better—or maybe worse. They were dirty, incredibly filthy, filthy with blood, lives, innocents. I broke the order out of will and today, I had nearly done it again.
Hands crawled back into my scalp, threatening to rip the hair and skin off my skull. My knees fell to the ground, I wrenched my hands away from the nearly severed locks, and drove them into the cold tar ground. It didn't crack but warmth began to seep and my knuckles turned raw.
A guttural sound vibrated within me. I cracked the balance too many times, I went against the pact I made with the hood.
Pull your shit together, Zayn.
My teeth dug into my lower lip hard, hard enough that it drew blood then I shook my head with a scoff.
And so what if they thought themselves innocent? What if the society thought them innocent? What if the whole world thought them innocent? What if they really were innocent? I am Heterox Mortiz. If their throats met my blade then as far as the world is concerned, they are guilty because I declared them guilty.
I didn't break the order nor crack the balance, they did. I just amended it.
I picked myself up, shoving down the pitiful feeling of remorse. I did not need to feel bad, I was always the right one. What I needed was a mission, one that'll make me think of nothing but it's fulfillment, a distraction from everything else.
The wind brushed by, tendrils of dark stands scattered across my face and the breeze caused my coat to float as I sauntered up the street.
A drawn out vibration in my pocket made me move my hands to withdraw the phone.
The caller id is unknown but I was instantly aware of who it is when his thick accented voice filled my hearing, roughened with smoke.
Troy.
"Heterox," he muttered, voice smug and rugged and stupid. "Assassinate the Quinns."
My eyes widened slightly. "Declined."
"I wasn't exactly giving you a choice." Silence settled between us, one foreboding and ominous. That was a suicide mission, one I have been infact avoiding.
"Tough," was all I said, cutting the call off.