lourdesmont, honey, this one's for you
Because everyone wants to indulge in a little therapeutic murder from time to time.
He lies where she dropped him, this villain-turned-victim. His blood pumps in her veins as she seals his wounds and leaves him there to shuffle off the mortal coil in his own time. She is not Merciful Death tonight, no. She wants the pain as much as the blood. Maybe if she hears the heart falter, feels him suffer as he breathes his last... maybe that will soothe the demon throwing a temper tantrum in her head.
He dies before she crosses the street, and it is not enough.
Then there is the meth dealer in the estates. And the washed-up hooker turning tricks in SoHo. Both quick, both easy, and both ridiculously unsatisfying. The strapping young gang member, now... he fights her. Takes that deliciously ferocious lust for life and throws it in her face like the knife he carries in his boot. Smiling like a skeleton she lets him struggle, gives him the illusion of victory--and slashes his throat with one back-handed swipe of her claws before he realizes his mistake. But the warm spray of arterial blood does not fill the emptiness inside her. The feel of his heart, ripped out of his chest and crushed to a pulp in her hands just because she can... does not make hers stop hurting. And as she gathers up the heat of her rage--enough to burn a city block to the foundation--and reduces the corpse at her feet to greasy ashes, she realizes that this time the pain is here to stay.
He lies where she dropped him, this villain-turned-victim. His blood pumps in her veins as she seals his wounds and leaves him there to shuffle off the mortal coil in his own time. She is not Merciful Death tonight, no. She wants the pain as much as the blood. Maybe if she hears the heart falter, feels him suffer as he breathes his last... maybe that will soothe the demon throwing a temper tantrum in her head.
He dies before she crosses the street, and it is not enough.
Then there is the meth dealer in the estates. And the washed-up hooker turning tricks in SoHo. Both quick, both easy, and both ridiculously unsatisfying. The strapping young gang member, now... he fights her. Takes that deliciously ferocious lust for life and throws it in her face like the knife he carries in his boot. Smiling like a skeleton she lets him struggle, gives him the illusion of victory--and slashes his throat with one back-handed swipe of her claws before he realizes his mistake. But the warm spray of arterial blood does not fill the emptiness inside her. The feel of his heart, ripped out of his chest and crushed to a pulp in her hands just because she can... does not make hers stop hurting. And as she gathers up the heat of her rage--enough to burn a city block to the foundation--and reduces the corpse at her feet to greasy ashes, she realizes that this time the pain is here to stay.