Work Text:
You can feel it, clawing at your skin. The fire that lives in your veins and threatens to overwhelm you every second that you are alive. The urge that is the only thing that feels like you.
The violence. You were built for it, it’s all you’ve ever known. The sticking, cloying murderous rage that bubbles like a volcano that threatens to erupt at any moment.
And, when you are done, when the urge passes into a sweet nostalgia, when the scarlet of the massacre coats your skin like paint, and you can finally feel at peace, she is there. She is there, and waiting. She helps you wipe the remnants of your fire and rage and urges from your skin, to start afresh, a clean template of your life.
She is there. Your skin stops crawling, and your heartbeat returns to its normal state. You feel whole once again.
She leaves. She has to leave. They make her leave. The people who made you this way will never let you have the reprieve that she promises. The angel who visits only after you have become the devil.
You can feel it, the way that they made you. The rage.