Mortality

Volition

                                                                                           13.

 His hand was on the trigger, perfectly poised to kill. This was the moment, the reason he had come so far, done so much wrong. Finally, the act that would silence not only the man who had caused him to become this, but also the voices in his head, and the memories they forced on him. Jonathan took one last look at his greatest fear, preparing to terminate it, and heard something that made him freeze.

 "I didn't make you like this, Jonathan, you were already there."

 "What are you talking about?" Jonathan snapped in a voice full of mingled fury and fear.

 "Think about it," he began very quietly. "Did I make you assault that man? Didn't seem like it was your first time in court, either."

 Jonathan thought back on his last few weeks of freedom. He could recall the events, but they seemed part of another man's life. His old personality couldn't be connected in any way to his new existence, could it?

 "I was drunk," Jonathan rationalised, "it wasn't me doing it. And besides, I didn't do any real damage, nothing like what you made me suffer."

 "Alcohol only enhances qualities that already exist inside us. It most certainly was you acting at the time," he explained. "As for the extent of the damage, did you not mean to inflict pain on your victim, to display your superiority?"

 His victim. Jonathan felt sick, as if bile were rising in his throat. He couldn't process the information he had just learned. After months of seeing everything in black and white, Jonathan's eyes had suddenly been introduced to colour. Could it be, the man whom he had never for a second doubted was evil, was somehow similar to him? Perhaps there had indeed been reasons for his capture, but, Jonathan reminded himself, that did not excuse the horrors to which he had been subjected.

 "How do you live with yourself," Jonathan mumbled indistinctly, a truly pathetic expression on his face, "afterwards? You tried to kill me, and I don't even know your name."

 "Of course you know my name, it's Victor. How else would you have found my house?" he replied.

 Jonathan was caught by surprise. Maybe the man did find difficulty in living with his actions. He'd probably convinced himself that he truly was just Victor, an ordinary person with no secrets. He may even adopt a new persona as he carried out his 'experiments', and it was extremely difficult for him to talk about them as Victor. Jonathan had never once stopped to consider that he had thrown this man's life into almost as much disarray as he had Jonathan's. It was then that Jonathan fully realised the depths to which he had sunk in his desperation to exact a revenge just as cruel as the reasoning behind it. He was no better than Victor any more. Despite this epiphany, Jonathan's arm stubbornly refused to drop, continuing to point the gun directly at Victor's chest. At the moment, said arm seemed to reside under the control of his subconscious, which had apparently come to a further realisation, one which had yet to reach Jonathan.

 In the end, it was Victor who illuminated the path in front of Jonathan, and the actions he had to take.

 "The world needs people like us, Jonathan, because we let nothing stand in our way. Few people can handle success, but we've both shown we are prepared to take any opportunity to achieve it. We bring order."

 Jonathan let the words wash over him for a while, reflecting on the lengths to which he had gone to achieve this success. Julia, a kindhearted nurse who only brought help and company to the mentally ill, now a charred, mutilated corpse because of Jonathan's desire to escape and commit further crimes. Those two police officers, now grievously injured, the male surely traumatised just as Jonathan was, all because of the mere possibility that they possessed information Jonathan wanted. Jonathan knew that he would have gone further if he had not obtained the necessary knowledge, never dwelling on the people he had sacrificed. He didn't even know whether the fire had spread in the hospital. That was only the damage he had caused. Victor had left a trail of countless bodies behind him wherever he went, believing he was in the right because of some crazy ideology about the significance of death.

 That, Jonathan supposed, as he stood deliberating, was both the ruthlessness and the blessing of insanity. At least Jonathan knew what he was, and why he had to be stopped. Victor was completely unaware of the distress and pain he had inflicted on the lives of innocent people, and looked to be increasingly confident that Jonathan would drop the gun. Victor had given what he thought was a logical explanation for his actions, but was actually the insane philosophy of a psychopath. Ultimately, however, there was little difference between the two of them. All that had previously separated them was slight encouragement on Jonathan's behalf, something which had certainly been delivered.

 It was obvious, really, what had to be done. He didn't look at Victor as he pulled the trigger, tried to block out the shocked gasp and the painful sobs wracking his body as he choked on his own blood. Eventually, he found he didn't care any more. It was as if all the tension and anxiety had just evacuated his body, taking with them his will to live. This was not a negative feeling to Jonathan, though. After all he had been through, it was the most blissful feeling in the world. It didn't require an explanation, Jonathan had known all along, on some level, that, as he raised the gun to his own head, it would work this time. He noticed, with a detached pleasure, that his hands were no longer shaking.

 The Killer rolled over, completely numb with shock. Or perhaps his nerves had stopped working, he didn't know. The oaf had shot him. It hadn't been a killing discharge, but he would soon bleed out, or be unable to breathe. He noticed the body lying on the floor next to him with an absurd sense of regret. His greatest subject had finally found a way to die. A fitting final image, he supposed, taking it in. Though a bloody hole in his head, now, Jonathan finally looked at peace. In fact, though hard to tell with the glassy eyes preventing a proper facial expression, the Killer could have sworn he was smiling.

 Author's note: My name is Tom O'Connell. I'm a 14 year-old living in Galway, Ireland. This was my first Wattpad story. I really enjoyed writing it, and I hope you enjoyed reading it. Thanks to anyone who voted or commented, any feedback was appreciated.