Real Monsters

So, I killed them all ... friend, foe and bystander alike … a true slaughter of the innocents.

I killed city watch, troops, passers-by, shopkeepers, 'working girls', kitchen and waiting staff, adults, children and animals alike — all who crossed my path on the way to my goal.

I shot them in the head with a high-powered crossbow, in the face with a pistol, gutted them with my sword, stabbed them in the eye with a dagger, slit their throats from behind, shot them with incendiary rounds and bolts and watched them burn, threw incendiary grenades into their boltholes, roasting them alive, cast spring-loaded razor-wire traps around me with gleeful abandon that legs might be sliced off at the knees as they ran ... laughing all the while as I did so.

Now, the human mind can be fragile … the brain, central nervous system and endocrine system conspiring to make mindless automatons of all of us: fear and rage are powerful drivers of behaviour … the 'fight' aspect of the 'fight or flight' response can make us 'see red', resulting in a fugue state in which, in a state of physiological shock ... divorced from our own minds and bodies ... we observe our own actions as if they were those of another, powerless to prevent them as our bodies carry out the orders of a brain that has declared itself sovereign and refuses to obey us ... knowing before it even occurs what the next one must, will, be in a Hitchcockian nightmare of anticipation.

Moreover, it's not that there's no precedent for such behaviour: in a hostile environment, in which the smiling young woman or laughing child approaching you might not be what they appear but an enemy combatant in disguise ... their gay demeanour a ruse ... you don't necessarily run the risk of finding out you were wrong to give them the benefit of the doubt but, instead, shoot first and suffer remorse afterwards — it's better to be guilty than dead.

So, all things being equal, under other circumstances, I might cut myself some slack — I might be horrified by my actions, suffer crippling guilt ... even P.T.S.D. ... yet, whilst not able to absolve myself of my crimes, I could forgive myself my temporary insanity.

But ...

When the bloodletting was finally over ... the city silent but for the sound of the wind and its playthings ... the rustle of paper in the street, the thwop of canvas straining to escape the clutches of the wooden awnings above doorways, the creaking of wooden shutters attempting to wrench themselves free of their windows ... as I stood there in the eerily still aftermath of my one-man Armageddon ... a thought occurred to me.

So I doubled back on myself, backtracking to a specific location ... the 'staff' bathroom in a bordello I had gone through like a dose of Supergonorrhea.

It had been empty before and, 'midst all the chaos and confusion ... prostitutes and punters fleeing hither and thither as I sliced, diced, bombed and blasted my way through their carnival of the carnal ... I simply moved on to the next killing room in the abattoir I was making of the city.

And, sure enough, my intuition was correct: there were two, barely legal, young things cowering in there, trembling in terror ... shivering with a fear that left them more naked than even the gossamer whisps of transparent silk doing nothing to cover their modesty.

As I rammed my blade into their necks and geysers of blood spurted onto the walls, I was struck by the look in their eyes: it was different to that of the madam when I slashed her throat whilst reaching for the master key to the premises, that I might ensure no-one escaped by looking themselves in a room; there was no surprise in her eyes as my blade sliced a ragged, bloody gash to match the one below, just the dull look of one accustomed to betrayal and abuse as she fell to her knees with a barely audible whimper, like that of a child anticipating the first blow from its father's belt — the look in their eyes was different ... like that of child beaten for the first time: one of disbelief, as if they couldn't grasp the reality of their fate at my hand.

No ... there are no mitigating circumstances here, no red mist, no way to pardon my actions with extenuation: not only did I set out with the intent to not simply take the fight to my enemies, nor even to mass murder all and sundry who crossed my path along the way, but I consciously planned to seek out and slaughter every living thing down to the very last soul ... even the animals.

It was no involuntary act resulting from an overexcited central nervous system and a body flooded with hormones. There was no diminished responsibility. I set out to commit not merely appalling and inhuman violence but multiple atrocities ... my actions to remain unsurpassed in their wickedness for all eternity.

The only reason I stopped was because there was no-one and nothing left to kill for as far as the eye could see, or the ear hear, and beyond; in the entire city, I was the only thing still breathing — I even killed the crows and rats that came to feast on the banquet of corpses.

No ... I have no excuses and, in all truth, even I'm appalled at myself.

I am a monster.