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There was no penalty in eliminating these.
No minus. Hell, I might even earn a gold star.
The straitjacket was a stained mess, the torn pieces of cloth trailed to the side giving the imps places to hold. They pinned the snarling nightmare as it drooled, its sluggish dark blood seeping into the ground.
I stepped closer.
Should I?
I hacked down again.
Circled it.
Found another target, sliced again.
And again.
There was just the rhythm of the swing.
And the screams.
The limbs became worms. Sectioned worms.
It wasn’t really blood, wasn’t really flesh.
I hacked again.
My shoulders heaved, and I spat to the side. Even if this wasn’t technically alive, it looked as if it was.
Jesus, what was I doing?
I brought the ax down on its neck.
Everything was quiet and still.
I breathed through mouth and nose, arms hanging loosely at my sides.
I’d stopped.
I’d not sliced it into a hundred pieces.
BUT YOU WANTED TO—WE BOTH KNOW IT.
No. I’d ended the torture. I’d killed it.
The creature dissipated into a black mist that merged with the night.
Still breathing heavily, I examined the marks left by its death throes—the alley lights revealed every smear, every smudge, every stain of black-red liquid. In an art gallery, this would be an abstract masterpiece. A Jackson-Fucking-Pollock
The thing’s waving limbs had drawn a gore angel on the concrete.
I swallowed the thickness in my throat then moved to throw the ax, but the weapon was already nothing but shades of gloom in my hands.
The puddles and clots at my feet wriggled, shrank, and faded into the ground.
The crime was erasing itself, but the horror remained.
Was this what I’d come out here to do?
