This place was a private school once. When that went bankrupt, it was sold and turned into a lab for a pharmaceutical company.
Mother’s business ate them up years ago.
So all that’s left are worn tables, damaged chairs, broken lights, and the skeletons of dusty lab equipment and sinks built into every surface. Maybe even a handful of ghosts I’d created over the years—vile personas really—watching from the shadows in the dark. Men who couldn’t keep their hands off our family’s goods… men who needed to be taught a lesson…
But all men who needed to be put down per the Don’s orders.
I haven’t used this place in a long time, but recently it’s gotten so loud in my head—the impulses I usually keep leashed have been lashing out more frequently. It’s like I’m constantly susceptible to violence.
Hunts like these are the best way to sate it. To take the edge off.
I hover in the space, but I can smell the rat already. The scent of piss clings to him so strongly, it doesn’t matter that the ceiling light is broken.
My humming dies in my throat as I turn and leave—as I step out of the room, and gesture for Baal and Aster to walk away.
They both do this silent huff—that looks insultingly judgy—but they turn and walk away anyway, as I lean against the wall.
They barely make ten steps when the rat takes the bait and runs out of the room, tripping over my feet with a startled cry.
With a single downward swing, my axe cuts into his leg, and his scream is visceral.
This one tries to crawl too—I don’t see why they keep trying to do that—
Someone jumps on my back, wrapping their arms around my neck and roaring bloody murder, and my brows crease when I realize it’s a second rat.
It escaped my notice that there were two of them inside the room.
I turn to Baal and Aster, who’ve stopped some ways away, “What is he doing?”
The corner of Aster’s lips twitch, “Getting the jump on you, it seems.”
Suddenly Aster has jokes.
My life really must be going to shit.
I drop the axe, driving the rat into the wall at our backs and elbowing him in the ribs until his clumsy grip loosens.
When I turn to face him, my hand snaps out around his throat and he gasps for air as he claws at my fingers.
In my periphery, a one-legged rat reaches for the axe I’ve left on the floor.
With a well-placed kick, the weapon slides down the hall and the man below me whimpers.
Now he can do that thing they all like to do so much.
Crawl.
It’ll be a game of who gets to who first; he has about as much time as it takes for me to kill the one in my hands.
Who’s now turning blue from asphyxiation.
I release him to grab the collar of his shirt instead, and when he breathes deeply, I bury my fist into his ribs.
Once. Twice. Three times.
I feel when they break beneath my knuckles. And when I grow tired of breaking his bones, my fist strikes across his cheek. One or two of his teeth fall onto the floor and with every strike, I think I finally feel my mood lightening. It’s like a balm that eases the itch only barely.
Until I remember the source of the song I was humming moments ago.
