Through The Mouth (Yandere Mafiatale SansX Reader) SECOND ACT

Chapter 17: To Make A Killer Cry

Who was the only thing that was buzzing inside my meek conscious, who echoing over and over in the walls of my mind.
Who will I have to kill
It broke my heart that I couldn't even marvel at the freedom that was tauntingly placed before me, without instantly being reminded me that it wasn't freedom at all, not with him sitting besides me.

"I Was Thinking After The Game, We Could Go Out And Possibly Get Some Ice Cream, So We Could Catch Up With Frisk And Ms.Toriel Some More, I'll Even Pay For It" Pap mentioned to get rid of the deathly quietness of the car, as he drove down the narrow rickety woods road. "So you're then saying that I'll be paying the bill then?" Sans chimed back, as a attempt at being humorous due to well... does Sans even pay him?

Just thinking about the ice cream he mentioned had my stomach churning in distaste over the cold treat. As of late, everything smelt like something was rotting, occasionally the buzzing of flies and maggots passed my ears like a ghost. Maybe it was my subconscious blaming myself on doing nothing when I know that I could have done something to prevent someone's life being reaped away by him. I can't even fathom what my subconscious will deliver to me next after what I intend on doing, killing someone I don't even know. One of those two mentioned friends of him.

But who?

I would assume that the most logical thing to do would be to kill the oldest. Killing a child that hasn't even gotten a glimpse of life yet is more sinful than killing a adult, after all, in some ages, they would have been far past their expiration date anyways.

Yet, would that crush him enough for him to pay for what he's done?

Surely seeing a child you cared for being killed in front of you is more crushing than seeing a old friend you cared for being killed in front of you. It would be the better shot to kill the child if I wanted to tear his heart strings.

Their lover. That's who you need to kill.

Yes. That's it. That's what would tear a psychopath's heart into shreds without a drop of blood. For the first time in months, a genuine smile graced my face,
I felt like rolling down the window and jumping out of it, maybe luckily landing on a broken beer bottle to stab my back.
I felt like taking a big hand full of the leather seat I sat on, stuffing the toxins into my mouth, then letting it slowly clog and poison my insides, or clutter my lungs.
I felt like wringing my own neck tightly, clawing onto my skin as if my hands were cheese graters.

I felt like finally letting go from the branches that held myself up, my mind could let go beneath the tree and into the frigid heartfelt waters that Ophelia had once entered centuries ago. The water would be the jade tiles decorating my casket, as the pearly bubbles falling out of my lips would be the golden nails hammered onto my coffin.