I see it.
I see it now.
I close my eyes and I dream.
The blood, so hot and sticky. The blood, so rich and thick. The blood, so vividly crimson in my minds eye. But it is not mine. I spilled it, but it is not mine.
It flows from the gaping holes like a cleansing tide, running between my fingers until it washes away all the pain, all the suffering. It soaks through my gloves, turning the white cotton red in its purifying wake. Only then do I look to the one who bleeds for me and I smile. I smile as I see Rosabur lying before me; her blood, her tears, mingling together in pleasing swirls, pleasant spirals, flowing out and around, covering us both until I am free of the perpetual torment.
I wake.
I wake and I remember that hatred is not the way. I remember that hurting people is wrong. I remember that vengeance is a self-destructive cycle. I remember that I am not a monster.
The dream haunts me, though. It calls to me, promising release. The temptation to heed it is almost unbearable. Give in, it whispers in the corridors of my mind, echoing eerily though I try not to hear it. Give in and take from her as she took from you.
