Vera Markov was born into this life. She did not choose it. Had she been given the choice, she never would have even considered this life to be an option. She was born a human but she was raised to be a monster. A killer, a fighter, a warrior. She w...
The first time that I killed somebody, I was twelve. My ears were ringing from the shot of the gun, his blood covered my shaking hands, my eyes stared wide at the man as he fell to the ground in a lump. I did not cry. I did not scream. I remained calm as I approached the man who hadn't died yet. I could see him breathing, blinking. I had been practicing my shot but it wasn't perfect yet and I had only shot him in the stomach but he was definitely dying.
His eyes were open and I stared into them, wondering if I would be able to tell when the life actually left his eyes. I wanted to see him die. I wanted him to see me staring back at him so that he knew that I was not sorry for what I had done. I wanted to be the last thing that this man saw before he faded into the abyss of whatever comes next.
I wanted to say something to him but I did not know what to say and so I said nothing. I just watched him as his breathing started to slow and his wide blue eyes stayed connected to mine. I think that it was because that- like I wanted him to know that I was not afraid- he too wanted me to know the same thing about him. He was not afraid because he was dying for what he believed in. I was killing for what I believed in.
It took three minutes for him to die and I did watch the life leave his eyes. His head drooped to the side, his eyes went wide and pale, his abdomen stopped moving up and down with his breaths. The man was dead and I was still holding the gun, his blood was literally on my hands and my clothes and arms, the gun was rattling in my hands because they were so shaky.
Once I was sure that he was dead, I dropped the gun to my feet and I threw up.
I knew that he deserved it and I wasn't sad that I had killed him but there's just something about taking a human life that made me feel queasy. Later, I would recognize that queasy feeling as something called humanity. My father called it weakness. I didn't want to be weak and so I got rid of it.
I did not stop stripping away my humanity until I was able to shoot somebody in the skull without batting an eye or losing a wink of sleep. That is strength. To my father, at least, and there was never anything that I wanted more than to please my father.
I would kill for him. I have killed for him, and I will continue to do so in the name of the mob. In the name of my father. I don't think about it anymore, I just aim the gun and I pull the trigger and I don't feel remorse for the life that I've taken because I've been taught that it's necessary. In the name of Pantera.
It has made me a monster but in the world that I live in, we are all monsters and so I do not let my inhumanity wear me down, I thrive on it. I do not fear the monster inside of me, I have let him consume me until it has become all that I am.
The first time that I killed somebody was not the last. As his life ended, mine had begun.
** A/N **
Thank you @Corabellina for these amazing banners!
This story is completely posted on Radish as a freemium story. That means that if you don't want to pay, chapters will be released every week but you can pay a few cents per chapter to read the entire story now.
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