Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
BLOOD WAS THE ESSENCE OF LIFE AND MAEVE VIEN WAS ITS REAPER.
The skin was raw, tainted an ugly rose with splotches of periwinkle. Her hands that will forever be doused in blood had scrubbed and scrubbed, trying to rid herself of any reminder of the crimes she had committed. Crimson swirled down the drain as hushed cries fell from her lips. Taking a life is easy in theory. One chooses between slow and painful or quick and painless, their weapon of choice ( a poisoned blade in Maeve's case ), and where they would like to strike first. In the mind it appears easy, something anyone could do, and that would be correct. Anyone can take a life but not everyone can accept what they have done.
The assailant could have been killing for years, decades, and still have a hard time grasping that they have turned into a monster. Or, in the rare case; the killer knows they are a monster but doesn't want to be.
That was where Maeve fit in. A killing machine who wishes to be better. She did not want to be a murderer, a human weapon, a monster. What she wanted more than anything was to change. She was haunted by her past, everything she had to do to ensure her own survival. Maeve was disgusted with herself. She was no better than the people hiring her lethal hand.
Peering up into the small mirror above the sink with bloodshot eyes, Maeve wanted to break the glass. The weakness she was showing would have earned her a harsh beating had she still been with Madam Hoffmann. It only made the disgust turn to anguish as she turned off the sink. Her nimble fingers tugging at the hand towel hanging on the metal bar to dry the wet skin. Not bothering to be gentle with the bruises, welcoming the pain it brought.
You're a failure.
Weak.
Undeserving.
Maeve swallowed the thoughts as if they were nails scratching against her throat, threatening to make her bleed. "Fucking pathetic," she grounded out as her hands gripped the porcelain sides of the sink. Knuckles turning white. "Get yourself together. You're a murderer, you don't get to feel self-pity." She recited the words her parents often spouted in her dreams, "you have nothing to cry over." Her breath quickened, her heart fighting against her chest. "Killers don't deserve pity."
The woman in the mirror was a ghost, an image of who she once was. A little girl with a blade forced in the palm of her hands. The little girl she failed to protect. It brought forth emotions she was not yet ready to unweb. Reeling her fist back she slammed it into the glass, shattering the reflection into pieces. Her knuckles were coated in blood but this time her own.
I deserve to bleed.
I deserve this pain.
"Y'know this is not what I was expecting to see."
Maeve turned to look over her shoulder where a tan woman with long burgundy hair stood, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed. Eryn Bassett, bartender and friend. Her appearance in the apartment was not all that surprising. If anything it was expected of the young woman to break in whenever she pleased. "Rough day," Maeve huffed while running her hands under the water once more.
