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❝Because inside me is a beast, a beast that snarls, a beast that howls; and it's straining towards freedom...and as hard as I try, I cannot kill it.❞

Other / Horror
Age Rating:


I stare down at what was left of the bodies of the six men I have just killed. I cannot help but wonder, do I love killing? Do I love to slaughter people? Do I?

What I do know is, I certainly do not love the way my body works so effortlessly as a weapon.
I know my body has the knowledge of where to strike for maximum impact, where to slash, where to rip, how to stalk… I’m undeniably brilliant at it.

The continuous battle with my body, my mind and my spirit...Nothing makes sense anymore, nothing.
It’s a battle already lost, I let it win.

My mind tells me it was all because of this war, a war that a privileged greedy bastard that we all must call our king started. He doesn’t believe he was ruling enough people, didn’t think he had enough land, nor enough wives or children.
The greedy hands doesn’t know anything other than more, more, more.

No matter how much I want to blame greedy hands for making me become who I’ve become, I know deep down inside that it was just a matter of time before this would’ve happened.

The feeling of the need to slaughter...the need to kill was always there. I just didn’t know it till I tasted the metallic crimson liquid that runs through one's body, till I felt that red velvet substance against my skin. How great it felt to rip a body apart, how it felt to have my preys’ sticky blood covering my hands.

I’ve embraced this side of me more and more every day, I was always going to be this, always.
The person I thought I was, the person my village thought I was, the person my own mother pretended me to be is gone. That boy is gone because I’m too weak to fight this hunger.

At the age of seventeen he would have never thought he’d be the one to end his life. He thought he would’ve died by one of the never ending illnesses that plagued the lands or at least die at one’s blade.
Not by his own hands.

Staring at his leather journal that held his confessions of his unsatisfying hunger and rage. He wondered if his mother would even be notified that he wouldn’t be returning home if he had chosen to end his life tonight.
What came so easy to him before he didn’t have the guts to go through with it for himself.

He looked up from his journal startled, his eyes met the psychotic dark brown eyes that belonged to the king, greedy hands.
The king snatched his journal and threw it deep into the woods “pointless actions”

the boy’s green eyes darted to the woods where his journal found its peace, he felt this overpowering need to slaughter greedy hands. He could feel his own bones start to crack and break before his body relaxed itself.
He still thought maybe all those lives he took would be forgiven if he ended the owner of those greedy hands, the king’s life.
That will never be the case…he wouldn’t ever commit that murder, it in it’s own was a death sentence to not only himself but whom ever else was caught up in the crossfire.
He wasn’t stupid.

“You shall listen to me when I am speaking” greedy hands the king roared as he made his young soldier stand up. He forcefully dragged him to the direction of his massive tent.

“Do you understand?” greedy hands pushed him to the ground of his tent. “Do I make myself clear?!” A kick to his back followed.

“Yes your majesty” he didn’t want to disobey this greedy king’s orders.

"Why so frightened my dear?" Crouching down greedy hands tried to cup the side of the boy's face, but the boy moved away from the touch as one single tear rolled down his extremely dirty cheek.

He wasn’t scared, he felt pain but that too was numb. All he felt was the burning hot tears rolling down from all this
rage that was boiling inside him.

"You're so pretty that I mistaken you as a lady when I first laid my eyes on you." The pedophile of a king spoke as his greedy fingers tips danced against his skin.

The boy just bit back what he was going to say, he was clearly not a woman.

Greedy hand’s head shot up the moment he heard someone walk into his tent, standing up from his crouching position. He questioned if he actually heard what he heard, there was no one else in the candle lit tent.

The young soldier watched greedy hands walk to the entrance of his royal tent and with a blink of his eyes the king’s decapitated head rolled to his feet. He could taste greedy hand’s blood in the air, the taste of metallic salty bitterness filled the tent.

He didn’t see who walked in, his eyesight blurry from the high he was experiencing from the scent of blood. His eyes rolled back into his head and his body went completely numb.

The sound of weak dead trees creaking, twigs snapping, owls hooting, horses foot steps filled the young boy's ears as he slowly came out of unconsciousness.

He quickly felt vomit come up from his stomach and rest in his was begging to be released from his body and with the next movement the horse made he projectile vomited on the person in front of him. He didn’t realize until moments after the last rush of vomit evacuated his body.

He was on a familiar horse, the horse that belonged to one of his best mates, Zander. He had his arms wrapped around the rider of this steed.
His eyes were still burry from the events of that night.

How could this be? The overwhelming magnetic feeling of his home and his family was surrounding him. He was home, but how? Was he dead?

The last thing he remembered was him laying on the floor of the King’s tent with the king’s ripped off head at his feet. Now he’s on a fast horse cutting through throne brushes with an unknown person guiding the horse.

Panic set in.

“You’re alright, gotcha out of there” he heard the guider of the horse yell back at him. It was Zander’s father.

“Sorry for the puk-“ Zander’s father stopped him from speaking.

“It’s an honor” he responded loudly back at the boy before the boy’s eyes met the lavender fields that met the river.

He could hear the soft whispers of people of his village but instead of being greeted by the faces of his loved ones that the voices belong to he saw instead was beast like men and women surrounding them to the point all the lavender couldn’t be seen.

Then he felt it, something sharp piercing his spine. His eyesight was beginning to spin, beginning to see things that weren't actually there....greedy hands smirking, laughing and grinning before disappearing and reappearing. He was hallucinating.

His eye sight got worse to the point it sickened him more. He felt someone touching his face and make hushing sounds, telling him to not fight it. It was his mother's voice.

Everything went black.

Was he dead?


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