#red flags galore

“Oh, little dove,” they sigh, an almost gentle touch threading through the grime-encrusted strands of your hair— blood and mud dulling the usually vibrant colors that lay beneath. “I did warn you how this would end, didn’t I?”

The gloved hand, warm against cooling flesh, shifts to your cheek, long fingers turning your gaze to their unmasked one. A dangerous beauty lurked within the darkness of their eyes— unhindered by a dark cowl, by the shadows they usually stand within, you could see the monster that had finally stepped out.

You hated how much you found them breathtaking. That the danger, the darkness, they offered still enticed you so because they didn’t pretend to be anything otherwise— they may put on a mask, to appease the general public, but they never denied the demon that lurked just beneath the surface of the angelic facade.

Forcing your lips to work, trying to ignore the growing numbness spreading through your limbs like molasses, you speak. “W-Why?”

They don’t say anything in response to your question, an almost stony look flickering across the expanse of their face before the calm neutrality— with just a hint of arrogance— returns.

“Because it’s who I am.”

The response, and the meaning of the words, so much deeper than what they appeared to be at surface level, causes your breath to stutter; darkness begins to leech out from your peripheral vision.

Because it’s who I am.

They were words you had gotten used to. Words, within an elegant scrawl, that were etched across your right side; ever since the day you had been born into this world. The last words your soulmate would ever speak to you.

You couldn’t find it within yourself to open your mouth and say anything else— to find the strength that had left you so long ago while you lay on the grimy floor of a long abandoned warehouse. Nothing else mattered as the world around you began to fade, your heartbeat growing slower and slower as each moment passed, and the only thing that remained was the gentle touch once more at your head.

Even as you slipped away into nothingness.

———————

Why?

Such a simple question. One that every child got the grasp of rather quickly. Why do we have to go? Why do those people not like ice cream? Why can’t I go play outside?

Why?

Those three letters, that simple question, had become something so much more during their life. Becoming the most complex equation that would follow them as they grew, and they became what they are now.

As the red on their hands grew to such a dark crimson it almost matched the blackness of the gloves that usually adorned them.

Why?

Because it’s who they are. They’re a monster, a beast that had been let loose from hell to rain agony on the purgatory of life. Their purpose, their only purpose, was to hunt from the shadows to snuff out the light, which means they never gave the tattoo situated on the left side of their chest any thought. Didn’t think about the being that lived out there— unaware of the monster that forever stained its darkness onto them.

Ignored the possibility of their happy ending. Monsters didn’t get one— evil didn’t know how to love. All it knew how to do was consume and conquer, it didn’t know the softness of a lover's hand or the gentleness of its warmth.

“It’s who I am,” they murmur, hand finally stalling its repeated motion within the dirty strands of hair. The vibrancy of the strands was lost when the figure was too. “It’s who I am.”

Even if sometimes I wish it wasn’t…

Blood dripped crimson droplets onto the drab concrete floor; being lost a moment later against the grime and trash that littered it.

If it had been any other time, any other person, then the hooded figure would have chosen a place a bit more… substantial, but this rundown warehouse suited their needs just fine. After all, this was the environment human beings like the man, strapped to the chair in front of them, thrived within.

“Pl-Please.” The word is gurgled out, blood stained lips stretched taut to keep pathetic sobs at bay. “I-I didn’t know. I won’t do it again.”

The hooded figure tilts their head, as if pondering the man’s plea. Ruminating on if they would actually let this piece of shit go after what he did. Of course, this man didn’t know he’d been signing his death certificate the moment he went after what was theirs; a sane, or merciful, individual might even let him go after the hours of torture he had already experienced.

Unfortunately, for the man, the person he is dealing with isn’t all that sane nor were they all that merciful.

“You know, I might have just done that if what you did wasn’t so egregious.” Silver, flecked with red, flashes in front of the man’s sniveling face when the knife, within a leather clad hand, comes ever closer. “I might have even found your pathetic begging enjoyable, but I can’t even find it within myself to do even the bare minimum with you.”

Pulling away, the figure surveys the man— covered in his own blood due to wounds that had been expertly inflicted; targeted in spots the would hurt, but wouldn’t kill— and feels a sneer curl their own lips behind the cowl.

“You tried to take them from me.” The man begins to whimper anew at the soft quality to the figure’s tone, the tone of someone who had no regret, or remorse, for what they were about to do. “You tried to clip my dove’s wings and I can’t let that stand, you see? No one is allowed to hurt them and if I let you go?”

They crouch before the man and take his chin into an iron-like hold, not at all concerned about his comfort.

“That’s just bad business,” they continue, bringing the knife closer once more. It’s serrated blade dragging a lazy arch across his grime speckled skin; not too deep, but deep enough for a steady stream of red to make an appearance. “But if you’re worried about dying now, there’s no need.”

The man is jerked forward, closer to the shadow adorned face of his worst nightmare.