Drabble
Young!Shelly. Motivated by angst and shit. Warning for violence.
The movements come easily to him now; he is sure they will become instinctive in time. The target can't move. Firstly, his limbs have been securely restrained; secondly, there is a knife touching his neck.
Shelly hears him whimpering.
It does not make a difference.
A clean slice across the throat, that's all it takes.
And suddenly, something clicks, a part of him tells him he's below human and a monster and how can he do something so heartless?
He can't help himself. His hand is tense now, and the more he tells himself it can't be, the more it shakes, small droplets of blood beginning to trickle down the target's neck.
The blood doesn't bother him -- and that part of him speaks up again, don't you realise what you've turned into, don't you see things will only go downhill from here? Conscience - yes, he can name that part of him now, and he rather wishes it would be quiet - be damned, he has to do this NOW--
He can't control his hand. The blade is lodged deep in the target's neck before he realises it, and now his sleeve is dirty.
He breathes deeply, shakily. Release. This is release.
For a perceived eternity, every part of him is silent.
He only regains his senses when he sees that the target's head is dangerously close to falling off, and his conscience is horrified to see that he is hardly phased. He's shaking, yes, his breathing is erratic, but there are no cries of what have I done or even a simple no.
Right. He has a good use for this head.
Before anything else: the clean-up. His hands first. A kerchief does the job nicely--
And as he wipes the blood from his hands, a stiff, dark smile comes to his face and his conscience mutters inaudibly.
He will have no regrets.