Blue Glass

Manfred

I knew something was wrong the moment I started scaling the garden gate to get to my house.

No, I knew even before that. I could feel the change in the atmosphere as I approached the imposing white house at the end of the street. All around me, the air crackled with tension, like I was entering some sort of malevolent force field.

I paused beneath the street sign, looking down the deserted street, which, like my house, was characteristically silent for a Sunday morning. The windows of the two story white building  were dark and all the curtains were drawn. Even the servants' door was closed.

I approached the wrought iron gate surrounding our house and began to vigorously rub my hands together, creating enough heat by friction to ensure I would have a solid grip on the black metal bars. The door of the gate was locked, as usual, but that had never deterred me, as I had found a decent way to circumvent the lock: climb over it. This time wouldn't be my first time doing it, either. I had been doing this sort of thing—entering from over the gate—since my days in Wahlstatt.
Wahlstatt.
The name of the institution alone was enough to churn my bile. I curled my fingers around the bars of the gate and tipped my head back, my gaze following the lines of the onyx metal to where they tapered off to dull, nonthreatening points. Against the sky, gray like the bottom of an old metal pan, they looked like menacing wolves' teeth, ready to tear and rip into human flesh, to send blood arcing into the air in a ruby red spray.
Blood...
Suddenly, I could almost hear the sound of my knife as I drew it across the moose's throat at the edge of the field, as vividly as if I was watching a similar scene unfold before me. I could hear the wicked metal edge slashing through dark fur, through skin, through muscle and tendons, severing nerves and slicing veins, and finally grating against bone. I could hear the wet choking sounds the animal made as it drew its last breaths, paralyzed by fear and pain. I could hear the low rattle in its throat as the light slowly faded from its dark eyes. And I could feel the heady rush of power that threatened to consume me from inside out, the euphoria at knowing I was at least the master of something, if not my love life.

I shuddered involuntarily. I was a soldier, and had been trained to kill and contend with death from a young age, but to feel the savage glee I had as I snuffed out the life of a defenseless animal was just disgusting. It horrified and sickened me. And it wasn't the first time it had happened...

My heart is pounding so hard in my chest I can hear each heartbeat loud and clear in my ears, over the high-pitched whistling of the wind. I hover on the fringe of the dogfight, casually flicking off any enemy planes trying to get on my tail. Their time hasn't come—at least, not today. Today I will not be Death's envoy to them.

My eyes narrow as they zero in on my target: a Sopwith Pup, flitting along on the sidelines, watching his comrades do battle with the men of my Flying Circus.
A novice. Exactly my type of prey: fast, efficient, and—among the British, at least—abundant.
I feel a surge of eagerness as I push the control stick forward. The motor of my plane howls in response, like it too is excited to score this next victory.
The pilot registers my presence as I close in on him. His plane visibly shudders as he jars his control stick out of shock. The British have all learned to fear my red plane, and this young man's reaction only stokes my ego.
He, too, is afraid of me. Very well, then: I shall show him what true fear is. I will show him what it's like to be on the receiving end of my wrath.
I concentrate, and squeeze the triggers of my twin Spandau guns. There is a harsh, rhythmic rattling sound as twin streams of lead pour out of the barrels and towards the wooden crate before me. Splinters of wood fly off the edges of the plane, ripping jagged furrows in the sanded wood. The pilot turns tail immediately and guides his plane into a shallow dive, heading straight into a thick cloud.
A useless move. We emerge out on the other side of the cloud. It is easy to see that he's beginning to let his guard down. He thinks he has given me the slip. I almost laugh in derision as I flatten the triggers of my dual machine guns with my thumbs. The crack of the bullets as the gun launches them into the air is music to my ears. Loud snaps and crackles of wood as tracers bite into the wooden fuselage rise above the roar of the motor.
We are dangerously close to British lines. I watch as the pilot flicks his plane into a turn, ready to cross into friendly territory. The blood roars in my ears as I fire one last stream of bullets at him. My condescension is slowly turning to rage at being challenged with impunity. For a moment, I almost think he will get away...
And suddenly, there is a sickening, sharp pop, followed by a telltale hiss. My heart leaps with wicked joy as I realize I have struck his engine.
A trail of white smoke begins to seep from the back of the plane. I watch in intoxicating exhilaration as the plane sideslips and begins the death spiral downwards. I watch as chunks of fabric and wood flake off of it as the white smoke turns gray and then an inky, charcoal black. The fuselage—or what's left of it—slowly catches fire, until it is a flaming orange comet hurtling through the gray clouds. I follow the plane down...down...watch it crash into the ground in a plume of smoke and fire and twisted metal—