//------------------------------// // He // Story: Four of One // by Divide //------------------------------// Me Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crack. I step back, and admire the damage. Amongst the blood, I can see that the wall has a new crack in it. So does my hoof, but that doesn't matter. I haven't felt anything for a long time, and it's starting to grow on me. Except for anger. I still feel that. The red-hot, burning, pulsating, adrenaline-filled feeling of rage is still alive and well, for I keep the flame burning like a hand cupped over a lighter to keep the wind from extinguishing it. It's well I do, too. Who else is going to keep the fury alive? Leth is too weak. He is nothing but cheap talk, the meaningless words before a satisfying brawl. Were he a separate entity, I would show him what I do to lazy, slothful bastards filled with enough hot air to fill up a zeppelin. And Leo? Don't get me started on him. All play and no work. He sits there, lost in memories and pretends that everything is fine when it's clearly not. Fool. Damaged. Broken. I wouldn't even feel bad about hitting him, as he's as much a part of me as my cracked and bloody hoof. Masochism is generally frowned at, but I don't care; he's me, and I'm him, and I can do whatever I damn please when I'm in control. And I want out. I look back at the wall, and hit it as hard as I can. Both cracks enlarge, and the colour red becomes more prominent. It won't be long now. The times I have control are few and far between, but when I do, I don't squander it. Soon, I will be free of this room. And if my plan works, I'll be free of this body, too. Just as I'm about to put all of my weight behind another crushing blow, I hear the telltale sounds of the locks undoing. Confused, I halt before my shredded stump makes contact. Was I mistaken? Surely they wouldn't make my escape this easy... ...Perhaps they are. The last of the locks are sliding out of their sheaths, scraping along like a sharpened blade. I slowly creep over to the wall that the door resides along. Out of sight, out of mind. I know they're watching me, even when I can't see them. But if they can see me, why are they opening the door? I don't know, but I don't question it: If they want to make my escape easier, than I shall let them. Sliding against the wall, closer and closer to my freedom, I wait just before the doorway. At the first instance of the door opening, I will escape, and no one can stop me. I don't pity anyone who stands in my way—in fact, I can't. The door opens, and I'm gone faster than a bullet. I shoulder it the rest of the way open, and barrel into someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They fall down, staggering, and try to trip me with their legs, but I anticipate the movement and jump. I land beside them, untouched, and deliver a quick blow to the head—not hard enough to snap the vertebrae, but enough to knock them out cold. One less combatant, one less problem. A shriek spikes my ears, and I jerk my head towards the sound. Standing stock still, but vibrating with fear, is a white pony with a sharp horn, mouth locked in a screaming position. Female, if the tone of the scream was any indication. A little voice inside my head thinks they're familiar, and that hurting them is a sin, but I squash the voice like an ant beneath my boot. Sin? Hardly. Nobody was innocent, and everybody deserves what's coming to them. Even if that thing is me, they deserve it, deserve every second of pain that I shall wrought upon them. I smile, but it's not a smile. It's more than that. It's a predatory instinct: I am the prey, and this pony in front of me, cowering in sweet, pungent fear is my prey. I grind my teeth, and regret that my sharp canines are but flat molars, but I don't regret for long. Regret is not me. I am fear, wrath, and instinct. I am the boogeyman that someone thinks they see before they go to bed, the avenging angel that smites the impure with cold justice, the inner animal that attacks with tooth and claw, fighting for food and shelter and mates. I am everything that has been lost, reborn in a body that cannot hold my purity of form. I see all this, and more, in the blink of an eye, the exhalation of a single breath. I taste the terror of the pony in front, hear the shallow breathing of the unconscious pony behind, and feel the power that courses through my, admittedly, frail container. I eye the horn again. Very sharp. I must act, and quickly, before— The sound of a solitary, echoing step from far behind me is all the warning I receive before I drift away from the ground, uncontrollably. A green sheen slides over my and encompasses my vision, and I struggle and strain to free myself from the tightening, constricting light. No. No! My chance, gone. I punch and kick and bite and tear, but it's no use: I may as well have been trying to push my way through unbreakable cellophane. I slump slightly, to give the false impression that I was defeated, while still scanning my surroundings, looking for some way out. I know when something is a lost cause, and this wasn't. I could still escape, earn my freedom with blood and sweat... My vision darkens, and I hear the sound of gentle sobbing. I feel a flutter of... something within my chest. I almost feel bad for what I did... ...And then I realize that, in actuality, I don't. I can't see, but I smile like a shark anyway. I am myself, and there's nobody who can take that away from me. I finally succumb to the darkness, and I await the next time it's my turn in the driver's seat with zeal. I can't wait to keep working on that cracked wall.