PROJECT MORTUUS: Killer In Silence

Chapter 1: Lonely Walk Down Memory Lane

Mortuus lay in his bed with an emotionless stare; his eyes fixed on the ceiling as he remembered his friend's last moments. He sighed and lifted his pen to his mouth, taking in a deep breath of it as tears soaked his bandages. The memories of the last few weeks were still so painful. He could see Willem's begging eyes vividly. He remembered the desperation in his voice as he prayed for Mortuus to end him.

It had only been a few weeks since Willem killed himself, and the pain wasn't any less raw. As he lay, Mortuus could see Willem's smiling face. He grinned so wide as the filter slowly filled with soul fragments, killing him. It was a hard thing to forget how happy being able to finally die had made him.

He sat up and angrily threw his pen at the foggy face that taunted him, "YOU AREN'T REAL!!" He screamed at the hallucination, its laughter mocking him for his sorrows. Mortuus sobbed into his hands as the cart shattered against the wall, and the hallucination faded into a smoky mist. It was the same mocking left as the one that tormented when he was ending The Stitcher's reign.

Sometimes, that awful demonlike laugh would return to torment him, trying everything to turn him into the monster that he felt the laughter belonged to. It was a screaming whisper in his ear that rattled within his head and echoed off the walls around him.

"The past still haunts you?" Death asked, looking down at the broken cartridge on the ground beside him. Mortuus nodded with his head in his hands. This was nothing new, but the reason for it was. That heart-retching sorrow burned into him like a branding iron on his heart.

Mortuus sat up, his boots resting on the ground as he sat on the bed's edge without looking at the Angel of Death. "Getting high ain't doing what it used to, Death."

Death sat down next to him, "Sitting in your pain will not fix anything, Mortuus." He paused, letting the first part of his sentence sink in before continuing. "I watched as you destroyed yourself the last time."

Mortuus turned and looked at Death, confused by his choice of words. "The last time?" He asked, a note of intrigue on his lips as he questioned the spirit. He couldn't recall any other instance of this sort of grief, which would be pretty memorable.

Death nodded, "Yes, back when you were Peter, Maria's death destroyed you." He paused, sighing as he revealed more. "Not all of those scars were post-mortem, Mortuus."

Death pulled Mortuus's sleeve back and unwrapped the bandages carefully and calmly while Mortuus watched in confusion. Mortuus could see blackened cuts that rose above the rest of his cuts like little mountains along his palish green wrist and all up his arm as Death peeled it back. Mortuus felt their rigid surface with a grim fascination. They were long healed and yet still had a rough surface as if they'd just healed that very same day.

"Why would I do that?" Mortuus asked, taking a long pause to think about it. He just couldn't rationalize such a choice as cutting himself. "Cutting doesn't change pain." He added as he thought about the reasoning.

Death sighed and stood up, leaning into his scythe as he stood. "Sometimes cutting is the only control we have. It distracts from the pain we feel in our hearts."

Mortuus sat up, the bandages dangling from his arm like tendrils. He looked down at them and began rewrapping, hiding the scars underneath again. He stood and walked over to the mirror before turning on the sink, letting the mirror fog up and distort his image. Not that he really liked this image anyway.

"I don't know much about living, Death... But this just isn't it." Mortuus sighed and splashed warm water onto his uncovered face. He usually kept his face exposed when he was alone. As the water hit his skin, Mortuus could feel it trickling down into his ripped-open mouth and pour down like a faucet. It leaked through each open cavity and poured down, some of it leaking through holes in his throat.

As Mortuus unsteadily stood looking into the mirror with hatred for his ghastly appearance, he was reminded by a kid's drawing he had hanging up on his mirror that he hadn't visited the orphanage. "Guess I should rewrap this hellish thing." He sighed.

Mortuus reached under his bed and pulled out a medical box with a handpainted red cross, rifling through its contents and pulling out fresh white bandages. He sat on the bed and made a loop around his forehead, tying it tightly before wrapping it around the rest of his head. He wrapped it around his eyes with a steady hand, ensuring it didn't entwine over his hair.

He reached back into the box and, pulled out surgical scissors, and clipped the end before tucking it into place and finishing it off with a tight surgical knot. He'd been doing it so much that it was almost second nature and quite unnerving to witness how skilled he'd become at doing this.

He stood up again, looking at himself in the mirror to make sure he hadn't missed a spot. It was perfectly coiled, as per usual. His hair fell over the colorless bandages in curly waves of oil black. Mortuus walked to the door and grabbed his trench coat, throwing it over his shoulders, gripping the sides of his collar, and lifting it into place with a singular, quick motion.

He checked his hair, fixing it into place before grabbing the handle and shutting the door to his room. Mortuus's eyes couldn't help but wander towards the main room of the bunker as he walked down the hallway in silence.

He passed with a sigh and began walking through the forest, a fresh fog hanging in the air like a reminder of just how lonely he was.