It was the first time I killed a man. I had thought that I had killed before, but thinking and knowing are two different things. This time, when I looked into his eyes I knew he had died. I saw the little yellow whisper of light leaves his eyes and his hopes crumble like dried leaves. He was a strong man who never cried in front of me, but at that moment I could see the tears well up in his throat. I had killed him, and hadn’t even meant to.
After that day, after him, there were others.
Once you have made your first kill, it is hard to stop.
I stomped down the streets ripping heart from heart out of shriveled up chests, and wore my casualties blood as lipstick. The men could smell the scent of death on my lips, but they crawled to me anyway. One by one I plucked them up and smashed them with my heels as if they were flies.
I felt nothing.