Most men within the syndicate prefer the solid and steady weight of a revolver. A speedy way to do someone in while maintaining your distance. Killing is a messy business either way, but I prefer the knife. Ending a life is generally not something I do without consideration. Killing is personal, and so the act itself should also be.
My purpose in life has only ever been to kill. It was the sole reason for my existence as a wee lad. To learn how to kill. They taught me well. There is not anything else on this earth I can do so efficiently. Conversation, understanding others, making decisions. These are not things I am well versed in. But killing, I can do. Without question. Without hesitance. Without a shadow of doubt in my soul.
I was born to take life.
There is an endless amount of rage burning inside of me. I only ever have to tap into it, drawing off small amounts to complete each task I’m given. It is nothing more than a business transaction. A dot of the i or slash of the t. I don’t particularly feel much of anything when I dim a human light.
Few things can invoke strong emotions in me. I do not like emotion. I do not understand it. Attempts to understand it only result in frustration. For this reason, I stay away from anything that provokes emotions I don’t understand. But death, that is something that I understand.
I’ve been called a sociopath. A monster. But I don’t fancy myself one. I’m simply a man doing a job that needs to be done. If it wasn’t me doing it, someone else would be. The men that I kill, they’ve all had it coming. They knew what they were getting themselves into. They’ve either done Niall wrong or threatened the syndicate in some way. And threats have to be eliminated, just like vermin.
One of the few moral codes I still abide by. I will protect my brethren at all costs.
In doing so, I’d like to think the men who meet with me are given a swift and honorable death, in most cases. Terror isn’t a balm to my soul. I do not draw enjoyment from the act itself. I do not feel anything. I prefer precision and cleanliness. A quick slash. Nothing that involves brute force or unnecessary dawdling. Most of the lads don’t know it, but I truly don’t enjoy the torture aspect. In those cases, I’m only doing what’s necessary and effective. It isn’t the pain I seek from the clients, only the answers. If they tell me what I need to hear, then it goes easy for them. The choice is ultimately theirs.
With that being said, Donovan is a different occasion altogether. He is one of our own. A man who took an oath to remain loyal to the syndicate. To his brethren. He broke that oath. Betrayed his own. The penalty for such a transgression remains the same as the first world that I ever knew. Death.
I believe it’s the common thread that holds all tight knit groups together. The imminent threat of death casts a shadow over wrong doing so large, so dark, that only the boldest or most ignorant of souls will choose to ignore it.
Still, it happens. I’ve laid to rest two other members of our syndicate before. The problem is only one of them was sanctioned. It did not stop me from enjoying that event, regardless. I strongly suspect, as the metal table scrapes against the floor behind me, that I will enjoy this time too.
Pleasure is a foreign emotion for me. The few times I’ve sampled anything remotely enjoyable, it has troubled me. It stands to reason that anything so intoxicating in potency should not be good. Like the pills they used to give me. Addicting. A feeling I’ve spent my whole life trying to avoid.
For tonight only, I will allow myself this one small act of pleasure.
When I turn back to my captive, he is bucking against the table in an attempt to free himself. He should know better than to think I’d half-arse any of his binds. He’s been working with me for five years.
I pick up the scalpel and twirl it in my hand, indecision weighing heavily on me. As I said before, I don’t like to dawdle. I could make his death as quick and painless as all of the others before him. But I won’t. Because in this rare circumstance, Donny has managed to invoke a very human reaction in me. One I’ve not often felt before.
These reactions almost always seem to revolve around her. Sasha. She’s worse than the pills. Worse than anything I’ve ever encountered.
I’ve killed for her once, and I did so gruesomely. If ever there was a time I channeled my psychopathic tendencies, it was then. Donovan has brought upon me that same familiar urge. The demons who want to come out and play.
My fingers tighten around the scalpel when I think of him inside of her. Touching her skin. Tasting her in a way that I never can. Feeling her softness all around him. Her scent, her sounds, her hands. My body shakes with the force of loathing I have for myself and for her.
I don’t want her. I never wanted her.
Light spills into the room as the door cracks open, followed by the tiniest of gasps.
Before my gaze even moves, I know it’s her.
Her eyes dart to where Donovan is strapped to the table and back to me, scalpel in my bloodied hand. Her pupils grow even wider as clarity descends, and she stumbles back a step with the one thing I never wanted to see from her. Fear.
She can hate me. She can despise me. But fear me?