A Legacy of Sorrow (A Violent Agenda)

Viola

There are no shades of gray. No black or white. No rainbows. All there is, is a kill-switch…inside my head. It flashes bright fucking red, enticing me to turn it ON.

And then, it’s just me.

And my knife.

And the burning desire to fuck someone up for the dark shit they’ve done.

Like now….

The man bleeding out from a slash to his carotid artery opens his mouth to scream. Nothing comes out since his throat is no longer in one piece. His eyes are glassy and unfocused. The accusation in them is clear. You did this.

Yes. Yes, I did.

I draw back my weapon. Blood runs in rivulets over my fist and down my arm. It blooms incandescent and raw against the pristine white cotton of my school uniform shirt. I’m covered in his blood…

Splatters of it cover me from head to toe.

Inside as well as out.

There. I gave into my craving, my hunger, the darkness inside of me. A calm nestles in my center caressing my soul, lovingly. I can breathe again. I can feel again. It tingles. I savor the intensity, wetting my lips as though I can taste it, contain it. For once, I’m complete. Whole. Free.

If only it would last.

Wiping my blade, I absently push the dying man away from me. He falls against the plastic sheeting covering the walls of the supply cupboard, giving me space to haul my ruined shirt off and step out of my soaked skirt. I let them fall to the floor in a messy pile, just as the light fades from his eyes.

A vision of me in nothing but lace is the last thing he will ever see.

He’s gone. Fun’s over.

I open the door and step out into the frigid, empty classroom. The cupboard door swings shut behind me, echoing out a dull thud. I pace over to where my backpack is strewn on the floor, sheathing my knife in the holster around my thigh. Inside the pack is a set of gym clothes—gray leggings, a white vest top, and a bright red Royal Deacon branded hoodie. I dress calmly and quietly, listening to the sounds of the school winding down at the end of the day, and the occasional drip of blood onto plastic sheeting.

There’s no reason to be concerned someone will come into Mr. Hans’s homeroom and find him drowning in his own blood. A fitting end to a child molester who liked to lock young girls in classroom cupboards with him, as some sort of sick and twisted joke. I planned it down to the last detail. Everyone has left. The last bell went hours ago. Friday detention is always empty because it’s football night.

After I’m dressed, my clothes are collected and stuffed into a plastic bag, and the specks of blood on my face and arms have been wiped away with a tissue, I call the boys. All that’s left is to clean up the body. That’s someone else’s job these days.

“Another one,” I say to the person who picks up. As long as I don’t have to get rid of it myself, I don’t care who does.

“Fuck,” a male voice says. I know it’s Dino by the way he sighs the word. He’s been doing that a lot lately. “I thought we agreed—”

“I agreed to nothing.”

“Lorcan’s going to blow his top.”

“Duke can do what he likes. I don’t answer to him or to you on how or when it’s done. You booked me for a job. I deliver when I see fit.”

“Where?” Another sigh.

“Lower sixth homeroom,” I say, hanging up. I don’t answer to anyone.

Even a new employer.

I tuck my phone in the pocket of my school hoodie, swing the backpack over my shoulder, and then leave quietly. I don’t know when I started not caring about where I recreated my kill room. Maybe about the time Dante tried to kill me. Or when the boys, specifically Dino, took it upon themselves to clean up after me. They did such a good job of the headmaster of Sacred Heart, leaving nothing behind to trace back to any of us, that I’m happy enough to let them deal with this one too.

After all, it’s not just my neck on the line.

Equally, I don’t give a fuck enough to do it myself.