Often he questions himself.
Not about if what he's doing is ethical, or sane for that matter. He questions why he dose it to innocent people, do they really deserve it? But then again, why shouldn't they? What have they ever done in return?
Absolutely nothing, that's what.
No one's nice in an post-apocalypse, anyways.
So he continues his work, making cuts and removing tissue for later usage. It was a good stress reliever most of the days, and often he found himself lost in the rhythm of it all. Swaying to the invisible music he's unknowingly created. Simon has finished on the section, moving to the other side to inspect his handiwork.
Yes, this was much better than his day-job, and more productive too he might add. Better to pursue what he loves than bury it so far with reason and logic that it's forgotten.
Does he love it, though?
The thought takes him a moment to process, but he dismisses it altogether like he always dose. What a ridiculous question that would be. But wait, no one asked that. Or did they? It was hard to remember things like that these days, but it won't stop him now. Perhaps there was a time he felt empathy for others, maybe even refrained from hurting them, but now he just settled himself into the rhythm once more, going on and on until everything was perfect and crimson. Was the patient looking at him?
Oh shit, this one's still alive.
YOU ARE READING
My Bloody Promise.
Science FictionHe promised his sister they'd be all right, He promised himself that nothing was wrong. But he was never good at keeping his word Set after wars and viruses, Simon must come to term with some things and refrain from stabbing others.
