Cursed Proficiency

• Prologue

Pain.

That was all that he could feel. 

Pain.

He felt paralysed from head to toe. He had no control; of himself. It was as if a marionette had taken a hold of his strings, and he was now their puppet.

Someone had taken control of him. Someone was in control.

All he could see were those haunting yellow eyes of theirs, glimmering and glowing in the corner of his eye—watching, taunting. Always lurking, always watching, an unsettling reminder that he was no longer in control of his own body; of his own mind.

He merely watched himself as he was forced to put one foot in front of the other, struggling to as he attempted to fight back against the control of his marionette. Though, no matter what he did, he was powerless.

It didn't feel real. It felt like he was in a coma; a dream that he could never wake from. 

Come on, Mickael. Fight. Move.

But, Mickael couldn't. He couldn't fight.

"COME ON, MICKAEL. FIGHT. MOVE."

Mickael heard familiar voices shout at to him, ordering - begging - him to come to, but that wasn't enough to pull him out of his trance.

With a blade in his grasp, Mickael began to move at a much quicker pace, now, towards a purple-haired woman who shuddered by merely watching his movements.

No. Not her. Anyone but her.

The woman's only defence was a knife, standing amidst piles of rubble. With her head oozing with blood, she wielded the knife with a quivering hand, though something about her stance told Mickael that she wouldn't fight back.

Mickael felt the yellow eyes burn into the back of his skull the longer he was under their control; the control of his marionette.

"Kill them! Not her!" Another voice shrilled, bouncing off the walls within his mind. "Finish the job!"

It was too late.

Obeying his enemy, the grip on his dagger tightened as he approached the woman without will. With the blade of the dagger outstretched before him, he knocked the woman to the floor, and because of her dazed state, it made the job easier.

The woman stumbled and fell back against the rubble that surrounded the pair, doing everything in her power to fight back. She could hardly breathe from her injuries, her movements too slow.

"Stop..." the woman stuttered fearfully, choking, almost. 

Stop, Mickael ordered himself. Though, his body didn't obey - no matter how hard he thought of doing the opposite of killing this woman. Tears began to well in his eyes as all he could was watch.

Please, stop, Mickael told himself again. It didn't help.

Nothing helped.

Without a word escaping his lips, Mickael forced the dagger into the chest of the woman, the ruby-coloured blood oozing from her chest and onto his hands. The dark colour painted Mickael's face like a canvas.

Blood began to trickle from the woman's eyes; red tears, as she was stabbed by the dagger. The lack of oxygen in her body made it so easy for the blood to just spill. Her fearful expression died as the colour on her face faded, the life leaving her eyes while flooding with blood tears.

In his mind, Mickael was crying. Screaming. Howling. His dual hearts ached, wanting to pull away, but the dagger remained inside of her chest.

The pain in his chest was so overwhelming that he thought he was going to die himself; right there and then. He wanted to. He truly wanted to. He could not live in a world without this woman.

Within just moments, the conscience of the woman faded before him. She had no more energy left to use; nothing left to help her cling on. She was gone. Forever.

Salty tears continued to trickle down Mickael's face as they fell onto the woman's empty shell, his bottom lip quivering. 

This wasn't supposed to happen. That was all that Mickael could think. 

Why did this happen?

Seemingly, in a matter of seconds, Mickael's free will finally returned to him - his will to speak and move how he pleased. He finally felt the pressure of the haunting, yellow eyes lift off of him.

The minute his free will returned to him, a horrific cry escaped his parted and quivering lips as he instantaneously wrapped his arms around the empty shell of what was once a lively woman. He didn't care for the blood that stained his clothes; he was already drenched in it. The woman's blood was on his hands.

Tears streamed down Mickael's bloody face, each one a testament to the heartbreak that felt as raw as a fresh wound. It felt good to finally scream; to finally break down. But, it hurt so much. Oh, how it hurt.

Mickael's cries were muffled against the woman's empty shell, a desperate attempt to drown out the ache of grief that surrounded him.

In an attempts to revive the woman, he moved his shaky hands to her open wound, trying his best to apply pressure. Though, his weakness didn't help him in any way. 

Through his sobs, Mickael wrapped his blood-drenched hands around the empty shell once more, the pain in his chest unbearable.

"Come back to me..." Mickael stuttered, coughing on his own saliva and tears as he rocked back and forth, caressing the short hair of the woman's empty shell. "Please, come back."

But, the woman wouldn't come back. His lover was gone.

Forever.