The Darker Side of Me

The Final Broken String

Commander Teague has been instructed to destroy a rebellion outpost. We're still thirty minutes out, but we have to disembark the transport and go on foot the rest of the way. We are all disguised as travelers in need. The rebellion accepts everyone who needs help (after making sure they're not government officials), but the soldiers refer to them as monsters. Again, I have this odd feeling that I was once someone else: a sympathizer.

I'm so glad I'm not that weak anymore.

I can be the monster now.

The men hop out before me, hasty to get away from the killer in their midst. Highly satisfying. As one of them goes to pass me, he accidentally brushes my arm. My hand shoots out and grabs for his wrist. He yelps as he feels the tug, then turns with forced nonchalance. He tries to pull away, but my fingers are a vise around his arm. I twist it and he yelps again.

"Don't. Touch. Me," I growl deliberately. Then I release him with a blinding smile. He trips on the step as he scrambles out the door. Suddenly I feel a palm snap against my cheek. I fall back into the seat at the force.

"Don't ever threaten my men," the commander orders passionately. "Understand?"

I glare, longing to challenge him, but the ever-looming threat of that Sound makes me hold my tongue. I go to exit, but Teague stands in front of the aisle, mirroring every move I make trying to get around him. I dodge suddenly, trying to get under his arm, but he reacts too quickly, grabbing my shoulder and shoving me back to my former position. I stand fuming, arms crossed. He passively holds his ground.

"What," I finally say.

"You may not attack anyone here."

"I thought we were supposed to destroy the outpost."

"And take all one-hundred and twenty-four of them prisoner."

I glance wryly around the transport.

"I don't think all of them will fit," I say. "Maybe I should kill a few of them. To limit our numbers."

"No killing," he says firmly. I glare and cross my arms. "Consider this a test of self-restraint. If I do not have to use this," he adds, raising his hand, "you may kill as many as you like on the next mission."

"Fine," I say, and exit at long last.

We walk for so long in such heat that many of the soldiers are exhausted and trying not to show it. I'm fine, of course. I'd spent hours forced into punishing exercise in the rehabilitation center. And much worse.

I shudder as I briefly recall the barefooted treks over blazing coals, wind trying to blast me back to the start, the promise that if I made it this time, I'd be free. The subsequent return to my cell, feet in burning agony for days on end until they used the healing salve to restore them anew, then sent me over the coals again and again. Most of all, I remembered the people that laughed at my screams and pleas, until finally, I learned not to call out, and in doing so, gave in. And that was only one of the many horrors I faced and overcame.

My hands tighten into fists. Oh yes. I am in a killing mood. I eye the pack of soldiers in front of me, locating the weakest one to take down.

The new guy. Cadet Jackson. I start edging towards his unsuspecting back, planning to snatch his carefully disguised plasma gun and shoot him. I lick my lips, anticipating beautiful, bright red, and the grief of those he once knew. Then they'd finally understand.

A firm hand on the back of my neck stops me.

"And just what do you think you're doing?" the commander says, lifting his right hand, his left still gripping the scruff of my neck.

Fury fills every inch of my body. He ruined my kill. I forget all warnings and lunge at him, screeching. His men utter startled cries. Commander Teague rolls skillfully out of the way, and as soon as he regains his footing, he twists his wrist.

The Sound fills my ears. I claw them until I feel blood rushing from the tiny scrapes my jagged fingernails have inflicted. I writhe on the ground, waiting, begging it to stop, but it doesn't. I pass out, wailing all that I can hear.