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monster. yes they cry out when you hack and stab and kill with no remorse, no mercy.
and yet, you wonder. if its truly you that's the monster.
they've sucked you dry, chewed on your bones and licked the narrow. they tore off the sinew and the scar tissue that was holding you together, because, monster, don't you know that scars are another kind of memory? and without them, you're a killing machine. inhuman.
monster.
yes, they've torn you apart. and so now, you have nothing left to give. and so you lick your lips and ignore the blood dripping from your hands, because you know its not yours. no, that is red, so overwhelmingly red. its iron. it will rust soon, be discarded. no, it's not yours, because the blood that runs through your veins is gold. yes, immortal, because monsters live forever.
monster.
and when you've finally finished, your hands dripping, they look at you. take a step back. and they cry out because they don't understand that they are in the presence of something divine.
what happened? who are you? they will ask.
and you will tear their hearts from their chest and hold it in your war-teeth, and you will make them watch as their own blood spurts out, so red. it will rust as soon as it hits the floor, and you will make them watch as it does. and then you will tear open your own flesh and let the blood drip. it does not rust, simply glows in the light of the waning sun. they will look at you again, and this time they will realize.
you are divine.
and you will wipe the blood all over them. drop their heart on the floor and stomp in it as if it is a fire that needs to be put out. and you will make sure they are listening.
and if they aren't? you will make them listen.
you will look them in the eye, making sure that they look the part. and then you will show your own blood-stained hands. your own hollow chest. your own smashed heart. yes, you will make sure that you look identical.
and then you will say.
I am the monster you made me.