The Beast » h.s

Prolong

                                                      February 1645

I stare down at what was left of the bodies of the six men I have just killed. I cannot help but wonder, do I love killing? Do I love to slaughter people? Do I?

What I do know is, I certainly do not love the way my body works so effortlessly as a weapon. I know my body has the knowledge of where to strike for maximum impact, where to slash, where to rip, how to stalk. I'm undeniably brilliant at it.

I'm truly tired of the continuous battle with my body, my mind, and my spirit.

Nothing makes sense anymore, nothing.

My mind tells me it was all because of this war...a war that a privileged greedy bastard that we call our king started. He didn't think he was ruling enough people, didn't think he had enough land, didn't think he had enough wives, or children. The king didn't think he had enough of anything he had.

I want to blame this king for making me become who I've become, but I feel as if it was just a matter of time before this would have happened.

What I know now is that the feeling of the need to kill, the need to slaughter was always there. I just didn't know it till I've tasted the metallic crimson liquid that runs through one's body, till I've felt the this red velvet liquid splatter cross my face, how great it felt to rip a body apart, how it felt to have my preys' sticky blood covering my hands.

This beast I've become, this beast inside is who I am. Now I'm left to wonder if I should embrace who I've become, or should I go?

The person I thought I was, the person my own mother pretended me to be, the village...my village thought I was....that boy is gone, that boy is gone because I was weak and gave in.

Mother it isn't your fault, it truly isn't your fault that I've become this way. It wasn't entirely the war or the king's fault. I come to see this now, this want, no this need...no, no this desire to...to do these horrible things. I can't control it, it's getting too hard for me to hold back.

I'm tired.

I'll see you again one day.

H.

At the age of seventeen he would have never thought he'd be the one to end his life. He thought he would have died by an illness of some sort, or die at one's blade, but never die by his own hands.

The boy stared at his journal that held his suicide letter, he wondered if his mother would even get his letter if he chose to end his life tonight. He was tired, truly tired. He so badly wanted to leave, but he was scared, he didn't think he had the guts to go through with it.

He looked up from his journal startled, his eyes met the creepy dark brown eyes that belonged to the king. He felt the king's hand take a hold of his beaten up leather journal, the boy's green eyes darted to his journal, watching it being placed at the foot of his cot. The boy swallows, he thought that if he just slaughtered the king right then and there, this war would be over, he'd be the hero, maybe all those lives he took would be forgiven if he ended the cruel king's life. That will never be the case. He wouldn't ever commit that murder, it in it's own was a death sentence.. he wasn't stupid.

"Why so frightened my dear?" The king tried to cup the side of the boy's face, but the boy moved away from the touch as one single tear rolled down his extremely dirty cheek. He heard the king let out a thick sigh. "Come along" with that the king stood up tall in front of the young frightened male.

He didn't want to disobey the king's orders, so he quickly took a hold of his journal and shoved it under his blood stained pillow. The boy didn't mind how dirty his cot was, mainly because he often didn't sleep there, he was always forced to keep the king company.