PROJECT MORTUUS : The Creature

Chapter 11: Cutting Deep

Mortuus stared out past the rolling hills and gorgeous, tall evergreens. His thoughts were no longer in his head; they were now tears rolling down his face quickly. His heart was cracking with each tear that fell to the ground. 

"I know I'm not physically alone, but I stand alone when I walk through the crowd." Mortuus cried at the figure, his voice deepening into a silent whisper as he continued. "But that's a feeling you won't understand."

The figure parted its hands silently, revealing a large scythe. "I know... I am Death." He paused, letting the gravity of his words sink in, "Hated for reasons you only understand. Life is a beautiful lie, and I am the painful truth."

"Then why don't you kill me already?"

"Your soul is fractured, much like your mind."

Mortuus laughed and puffed on his cannabis pen, sending a thick cloud of white smoke into the air—the smoke billowing upwards in white wisps. 

"Figures," He laughed again in a low, full-bellied, and hearty laugh. Standing up to face Death, he stood on the building's edge. Mortuus spread his arms out and leaned back. His feet left the ledge as he plummeted down. The ground was getting closer, but his face was still deadpan. 

The air rushed past him, his hair and bandages flapping rapidly as he neared the ground. 

THUDD!! 

His body hit the pavement with a wet thudding, blood spreading out in dark red wings like some sickly angel of crimson. His revolver was lying on the ground beside him, having fallen from his pocket when he hit the ground. 

Mortuus opened his eyes, a rictus grin on his stone-cold face. Blood rolled down his cheeks like tears of red as he lay there in his blood angel. "There's nothing to live for when you can't die." He mumbled with a disappointed sigh. 

Mortuus stood up with a heavy sigh, grabbing his revolver and not looking back. The blood angel was still on the ground where he landed, the only reminder that he'd fallen from the church steeple. 

"Asshole!" Death shouted as he vanished in a veil of smoke. 

"SO ARE YOU, DICK WAD," Mortuus shouted back without looking at him, sticking up his middle finger. "GO FUCK YOURSELF, BITCH!!"

Mortuus resumed wandering the streets with a numb expression. His cannabis pen was the only light on the dark, empty alleys. A soft and gentle breeze tossed his hair from side to side. Occasionally, a bird would perch precariously on a branch and squawk at him. His blood still dripped from his jet-black hair. 

The sweet sounds of the day seemed so irritating, but the nighttime's creeping quiet was such sweet bliss to him. No angry people were shouting at him or beating him for not understanding things that seemed to be known to all but him. The only sounds were him and nature's symphony. 

He walked the streets, a house's open door grabbing his attention for all the wrong reasons. A familiar smell floated heavily through the air as he got closer. Blood. 

He entered the house with caution, his revolver gripped tightly in his hand. The smell grew so strong he could taste it. 

Mortuus looked around the room. Blood splattered on the walls, and the bodies of a once-happy family were mangled where they stood. An arm hanging from the fan as it swung back and forth, an eye sliding down the wall. It was a genuinely sickening scene, and no one was safe. The TV was still on from before the attack. Near the back door was a child with twisted limbs and massive gashes in their back.

"I was too late. I failed them," Mortuus leaned down with sorrow and gently shut the eyes of a dead child, a silent tear rolling down his face and onto the kid's. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you."

He looked around the room, their blood was dripping from pictures of their once happy life. The poor child had tried so desperately to escape the awful beast as it tore their parents limb from limb. A mere foot and the poor thing would have managed to get out, but that awful creature had torn into the child's back with its horrendously long claws, and the child's spine was completely shattered. 

He silently walked out of the house. He stood at the front door for a minute, trying to hold his tears in, but no matter how much he tried, the thought of how scared and helpless that child had felt in their last moments just seemed to break him. 

He pulled his knife out and began carving a message, reading it aloud as he carved it: "May your rest be peaceful. I'm sorry I failed you," on the door before leaving. A message that said everything that needed to be said. 

As he walked down the street, dark figures of smoke and ash followed him, their eyes hollowed out, their mouths pouring out hateful words. Mortuus's knife seemed to taunt him from within his pocket. They were taunting him to cut himself, to make the streets run red with his own blood. 

Mortuus gripped the blade with a shaky hand, thoughts racing in his mind. Do it! DO IT!! They screamed at him with unwavering anger. He slid the knife across his wrist, warm blood oozing out and dripping down onto his boots. It felt horrible, but at the same time, it seemed to silence the voices. The figures faded with each incision he made on his bandaged wrists. 

"WHY WON'T YOU LEAVE ME BE?!?!" Mortuus screamed into the air as he fell to his knees, crying and begging for forgiveness. The blood-soaked dagger slipped from his hand as tears streamed down his face. Blood dripping onto its already stained blade, it fell to the ground at his feet. 

The voices in his head fell deathly silent, their mocking cackles still ringing quietly in his ears. His entire body felt weak and heavy. So very heavy, like he was about to collapse at any second.