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“My what?” He flops around like a fish out of water, and I enjoy the evidence of his panic as I slowly pull the dagger from my boot.
His blue eyes widen, and his pale skin turns gray when he finally sees the blade.
“What do you think you are doing?” he whispers.
“Vengeance.” I toss the dagger repeatedly, letting the candlelight reflect off the blade and blind him in the process.
“I did nothing wrong! Who sent you? What have you been told?”
Hot and potent rage burns through my chest at his clumsy words.
“You didn’t do anything wrong?” I stand, moving to tower over the coward. “I bet those girls you drank from without their permission beg to differ. Twenty of them—I won’t count the one from today since I saved her before you could sink your depraved fangs into her. They would scream your name from the rooftops if they still had a voice. They would give ANYTHING to be in my position right now. To hold your life in their hands!”
“I…who…I would never—”
Unable to handle his fucking lies another moment, I strike out hard. His head lolls to the side from the force of my fist. I dig into his filthy mouth, pull his tongue out, and glide my blade through it with efficient ease.
“You fucking stink,” I sneer, throwing the useless appendage before him. His muffled scream is just as sweet as the spray of his blood at my feet. “Now, you are going to be left feeling the life slowly drain from your useless body, just like they did.”
I would slice him from navel to throat, but I don’t have a sword with me that could make a deep enough cut. Using my daggers would take too much time and effort. I have neither at the moment.
So, I cut through the two arteries on his thighs and the ones on both wrists. He writhes with each cut and gargles on the blood filling his mouth.
I quickly scan the room and ensure I am not leaving any evidence of my existence behind. Satisfied that I didn’t, I skirt around the pool of blood as my stomach cramps from the smell. I make my way up the stairs and bar the door the same way he did every time he left the house.
This morning, when I came in, I took the time to memorize the layout. I always make my move at night, and lighting a candle would attract too much attention. I need it to remain dark. So, I make my way through the lavish furnishings without touching a single thing until I finally reach the giant fireplace.
The rope I left sways gently in the soft breeze. Hand over hand, I pull myself up through the tall cobblestone flue, making sure I don’t touch any part of it. One scrap of soot may alert the guards that this is how I have been leaving the houses. And I can’t have that. My work will remain unfinished until I cut down everyone in HIS circle until all that remains is HIM.
The suns stream through the cracks of my makeshift home, waking me up in one of the worst ways possible. I hate the sunshine. I can’t hide in it. It leaves me exposed, and everyone can see my scars — not that I care. However, there are those brave few who ask questions.
I groan with every muscle that screams and complains. I need a good bath and a warm meal, but only one is obtainable. So, I pack my things to head for the river.
I put on the stupid dress that is considered ‘acceptable’ day attire for women. I don’t bother with the stockings and slippers; my boots are perfectly fine. No one will be under my skirts to say otherwise.
Looking around the small space, I realize I am at the point of needing to do some washing. Actually, by the smell, I may have waited too long. Everything smells like old blood, dirt, and sour onions. I stuff my soaps and inks into my bag, along with my soiled clothing.
Satisfied that I have everything I need, I lift the thin wood slab covering the window and wait for my eyes to adjust to the bright light to ensure no one is around the tower’s base. It has been abandoned for years, but I would rather be cautious than too comfortable. That is how you get killed, and I can’t allow that until my work is done.
Relief fills me every time I realize that my home is still unknown. It makes it easy and almost enjoyable to sling the bag over my shoulder, grab the rope anchored to the ceiling, and propel down the stone wall. It’s still mine, and I don’t have to kill anyone close to home. Too bad.
I have lived in attics, basements, trees, cupboards, anywhere I could fit for the night. Never staying in the same place twice because it is safer to move around, especially after a kill. And as hard as I tried to stay away from this place, scared of the memories it might bring back when I accidentally came across it one night, I knew this would be my safe space.
There was a staircase that accessed the top, but I blocked it off within the first week of staying here. And it is good that I did it then because now it is completely encased in the thick vines, keeping it hidden from prying eyes. And no one travels this far to the edge of the city. ‘It’s too dangerous,’ ‘Those ruins are cursed,’ and ‘No one in their right mind would ever travel out there’. Fortunately for me, I’m not in my right mind. because now I have shelter, and don’t have to look over my shoulder constantly for a threat.
I groan as I land hard on the ground and ignore the dull pain while securing the bag over my shoulder. Luckily, the river isn’t far. I haven’t eaten in a few days, and it’s beginning to wear on me physically. Tonight will have to be only reconnaissance on my next target and a search for some kind of food. Anything will do. Well, not anything. I will never consume blood like the Keryth. I may be a bit desperate, but not that desperate.
Thank the Being Above that it rained recently. The river is flowing fast, which means it will take less effort to wash out my clothes.
I hold my breath as I take out my all-black attire: trousers, button-up shirt, cloak, hood, cap, scarf, underwear, and chest binder. Yep. I definitely waited way too long to wash them this time around. Dunking them into the water proves that they were more saturated with blood than I initially thought. The dark color hides my crimes well. I need at least one more of each item to make this all easier. I hate putting them on the night of wash day; they are always still somewhat damp.
Maybe I will take a turn around the market and see what I can snatch today. It has been a while, so their guard should be down. I might even get my hands on some bread or fruit. I also need more soap and ink.
Once the last item is washed, rinsed, and laid out to dry, I strip and wade into the cold water. Despite my intense shivering, I let down my hair and dunk underwater. It feels incredible to finally take my long hair out of the braid. I would keep it down more, but the inks would fade and crack faster. And I don’t have the time to keep applying it. And shop owners would notice if their expensive items disappeared more frequently.
Before resurfacing, I make sure my all my hair is wet and groan loudly as I scrub my scalp vigorously with the soap bar. I miss bathes. It has been years since I have had one. I believe it was before my parents were viciously taken from me. And then the years I spent—
I trace the scars on my arms. The long slashes crisscross and mask the past. I try not to think of those dark years. Of the pain. The screams. The blood…but I must allow myself to dwell on them for a moment. To remember why I am so fucked up. And once my perspective is back in place, I throw those memories back behind the walls until I need them again.
