The blade twisted deeper and deeper, the red and black spurting and gushing over the hilt and the the hand grasping it tightly.
The mental image healed her anger. A simple sort of release, a safe sort of release. Otherwise she might act on the bubbling bile brewing inside her mind and heart.
It wasn't always there. There were times of serenity and calm. Times when she could breathe easy and feel nothing. Then it would come, searing out of nothing, straight into her gut, and it refused to be held in.
The first time it actually scared her, the life of a rabbit ended. A pet. Six years old, stroking the white fur on her lap, when suddenly the sticky hot rage filled her, and she noticed red and pink mingling with the pure white. She had sunk her nails into the rabbit's neck, strangled it. As quick as the anger was there, it vanished, replaced by fear, repulsion, and a queer fascination at what she had done.
Other things perished or suffered as she battled to control this emotion. The problem was, it was never certain when it would happen or for what reason. Normally there wasn't a reason. Just that searing stabbing in her middle that made her want to kill.
Her first human victim was a bully, teasing her on her way home from school one day. She had become a loner, choosing to protect the other children near her. This separation was viewed as a difference, which always becomes a point of mockery.
The path she took every day went through the woods. The stick he reared back to smack across her legs never reached its intended target. She grabbed it, the small flicker of surprise on his face eliciting a wicked grin from the girl, and jammed the stick into the side of his neck.
His skull shattered quickly under the rock. When she came back to her senses, he was unrecognizable and her hands were smeared with his blood, brains, and skull. The peace she felt then scared her even more.
Was she really a murderer at heart? Those people were born that way, with the blood lust in their eyes, but normally they were found out early enough that they could be put to death, sacrificed to save the pure of humanity.
But here she was, hands stained with the blood of the pure.
The only solution was to contain this lust. This anger. So she began imagining the feats she wanted to commit. Allowing only her mind to indulge in the treat of blood and broken bones.
It wasn't enough.
Even now, her hands shake.
It won't be long.
She can't hold out much longer.
She isn't that strong.
You can't deny who you are.