𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍, bellamy blake ¹

31; nobody's son

"When we don't know who to hate, we hate ourselves."

― Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters

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IT WAS A NORMAL JOB FOR NAOMI—A SIMPLE SLASH AND KILL. Commander Shumway had given her a detailed list of the Murphy's daily routine, which included Maria and Alex's work cycles, and even John Murphy's school timetable. She pressed through the vents, trusty knife in hand.

Naomi pressed the hilt of the blade between her teeth as she swung forward. She pulled off the vent opening as she dangled above, pressing her feet on the wall either side to her to prevent her from falling. With a gentle squeal, the panel came upwards. Naomi lifted it over to her head and slid it into one of the corridors. There, she tangled herself in her rope, winding the material around her wrists. She peered into the living room and without another thought, jumped down. The rope caught her before she fell far, wrapping tight around her hands and ankles so she hovered near the roof. With the skill of a dancer she untangled herself from a knot in the rope, gracefully unravelling the material and swinging down with it.

The room was quiet as she leapt down onto the couch. Her rope dangled from the high ceiling and she dislodged the knife from her teeth. She licked her lips and spun the blade in her hand once. Naomi crept forward with the intent of a predator, walking on slow, calculating steps. She could hear voices from the bedrooms, coughing and a male's voice. The young girl peered through the doorway with wide, red-rimmed eyes. The man was turned away from her, leaning over a desk full of papers. The room was hot, a radiator turned on beside the bed. He was alone—his wife was at work and his son at school.

Noe flipped the dagger once again in her fingers. On one of the shelves beside her she saw scissors: large metal ones that were used for cutting papers. Slowly, she slid her knife back into her pocket. Naomi marched forward, grabbing the scissors from the shelf. In one swift movement she grabbed the back of the mans head, fingers covering his eyes and mouth. She sunk the blade of the scissors deep into his wrist.

With a muffled cry, the man fell backwards. He must have been quite handsome for an older man, dark hair and matching eyes. Naomi fell back with him, pressing his head down with her hand and digging the scissors deeper into his arm. He gripped at her hair with one hand, pulling her away from him, but she had already yanked the blade in a deep line down the length of his wrist. Blood fountained from the torn artery and the man screamed, muffled by Naomi's fingers. It would only take a few minutes for him to bleed out. Alex flailed around and threw Naomi into the floor. His blood splattered her face.

She managed to push him away, the man weak already. She slammed him down, jamming her knee against his throat. She pulled the bloody scissors off the floor and stabbed them down into the vein in his other wrist. With the release of a large breath she tore downwards and ripped through his next artery. He reached for her, trying to strangle her even. But Naomi tore his hands away and he gurgled, swiping at her face. She held his arms to the floor.

Alex Murphy stilled eventually—she was right: it only took a few minutes.

When it was done she wiped her bloody handprints off him and knelt over him. She left the scissors in his hands.

She turned from the body and there was a boy. He wasn't much younger than her, sickly pale and with bloodshot eyes, curled into bed. He was watching her with wide eyes. No survivors, she told herself. And she moved towards him, with the eyes of a demon. His face was slick with tears.

"No! No!"

And she grabbed the back of his neck and hauled him towards her. He was just a boy—angular face and sharp nose. He moved backwards, kicked her and swung out his arm. The blade sliced harsh and sharp and then Naomi was bleeding. Bleeding from her chest; from the knife wound. But the blood on her hands made it look like she was bleeding from everywhere. She twisted away but the boy came at her again. She fell back and kicked him away for her. He scraped the knife over her cheek, drawing more blood. With a yell she threw him across the room.

The boy rolled and hit the chest of drawers against the wall. Naomi clutched at the wound over her breast, where the knife had cut deep. She squeezed her fingers against it. Scrambling to her feet, Naomi turned and ran into the other room. She leapt upon the couch, making sure not to leave blood anywhere, and scrambled up her rope. She was securing the hatch over the vent before the boy even returned, with no evidence left behind except for Alex's distressed son.

No one would believe a young John Murphy, still hallucinating from his fever. His father had clearly slit his wrists.

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"I never wanted that." Naomi's voice was small, and it almost made Murphy turn again. "I had to do it..."

He turned at that with a snarl. "Of course. You had to murder a hundred innocent people."

"That's what we tell ourselves," she whispered, tears hanging against her eyelashes. "You know what I'm talking about." Murphy hit her this time. Her head snapped back and she stumbled. Naomi blocked the next blow by gripping his hands, staring deep into his eyes. He kicked her legs out from underneath her.

Naomi swung out and pulled him with her, the two of them wrestling to the ground. She gripped him by the hair as he swung to hit her. She pressed her hand against his face, driving her knee into his chest. He punched her again in the side of her head. With a cry, Naomi wrenched his hand downwards, pinning his hand beside his head. She panted, shaking her head.

Noe got off him and stood up. "I'm sorry," she told him. She ran a hand through her tangled hair and wiped her nose. Murphy stood too, hate in his eyes. He glared at her, hands clenched into fists.

"I'm nobody's son. Thanks to you."

She said nothing more, hanging her head. Blood dripped from her nose as she let it fall to the ground. It created red flowers by her feet, blooming in pain. She lifted her hands to her face and felt blood hang there. For a moment, as she blinked, the world turned red. And then it was normal again—normal and hateful and sad.

She bunched her hands in her hair as Murphy looked onwards in disgust. He shook his head at her, eyes full of hatred. "You're a monster."

She smiled sadly, drawing her arms up to wrap them around herself. Her head pounded with painful thoughts and for not the first time, she wished she'd just let them all be captured. The people she'd been trying to protect had all died anyway. Naomi wiped the blood from the side of her head. She exhaled and turned away from Murphy. "Yes."

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Very short chapter, I know! Sorry, I wasn't sure what else to add

One of the reasons I love writing Naomi's character is because though you can sympathise for her and love her (I know I do), you have to understand she really is a monster. Even though she was 'forced' to do those things she still did them, and that makes her a horrible killer--because they were innocent people. I just think its such a complex idea because I really love her. And thats why I enjoy writing her character.

Vote and comment if you enjoyed! Thanks for the support and I'll try to write another chapter quite soon because I'm sick at home atm