Toe to toe, eye to eye; I’ve met him. I confronted him and took it in. The hunched back, the shoulders arched over laboriously. The knees buckled, the arms thin and weak, and that gut, so prominent, bulging with years of desire and base contentment.
I’ve looked him up and down, that grotesque creature. The worn clothes, tattered, the weary sallow skin hanging off in folds under his chin, from those bony pathetic arms, poor excuse for limb. Knobbled hands, soft and frail, throbbing. I saw him. I saw it. I was revulsed, and I recoiled.
That hollow face, always looking down, always hiding. What a sickly creature.
He hobbled and shuffled as I glared at him.
He tried to run when I approached him, although more dignity would have been saved if he hadn’t, fumbling, he tripped over himself, falling to the ground, a crumpled heap, an ugly face of contorted self-pity breaking his fall, a bloody groaning mess.
This would be easier than I thought.
His measly little straws, protruding from his torso scrabbled lazily against the floor.
I watched standing over him. I waited. Maybe he had some fight, a voice, some honour. Maybe he would stand and face me, fight for his life. A wry smile tore through my face, a beautiful sensation. Probably not.
With effort that would have him believe he had achieved something, he flopped onto his back. His arms splayed to either side, his legs twisted and broken, he clasped his eyes shut, burying his face into what must have once been his shoulder, now a small lump of bony flesh, barely a knuckle. He whimpered, and spluttered, the sound, despair.
Oh how I felt powerful, the blood coursing through me, on fire with pure rage. Oh how he made me sick. Putrid! Revolting! Every pore clogged with sludge, every hair split and scraggly. A stench that was redolent of the most rich and fermented odours that sewage might produce, pervading everything, offending my very being. I almost retched. My senses, overcome at first, assaulted. The very air was thick with filth that he had to have been like an incense stick is to its fumes. Hellish in every way, I almost succumbed. But I am strong, and in that moment I realised my strength. I stood resolute. He knew it in that moment, he reeked of terror, among all else that his stench consisted of.
I looked down at him, his nose broken, swallowing his own slime and blood, retching on himself, dribbling on the floor around him, a dark brown, green ooze.
Coughing, he choked on some shattered fragments of tooth.
I watched and waited, revelling in his torment. Grinning.
When I had my fill, I bore down on him, in slow, powerful, sinewy movements.
I slowly placed a hand on his chest. Then slowly up to his neck.
His whimpers became wails.
Constricted, guttering, sobs.
The earth was cold, ripping out the nails from their beds.
His blue face.
A puny, pathetic corpse, twitching, jerking.
His entire being writhing in my grip.
I held my prey, until it was cold.
Savouring every spasm of agony.
All was still.
I raised my fists and brought them crashing down through his skull, once, twice. I beat his corpse until there was nothing left but a bloody pulp lining the floor.
It covered me.
I beat it till it dried.
It dried in the air around me.
I beat him to dust.
Days, weeks, months.
I beat him till I was bathed in the very flakes of his being.
I beat the ground beneath him until it bore no sign of him.
Then I stopped, crouched, knuckles on the ground, his ashes swirling around me. Resting on me.
I looked up and saw a man before me. A great hulk of a man.
We looked into each others eyes.
We rose from the ground.
The ashes fell away from us.
I saw his face. The same as it had been, but not pathetic, not hiding. I saw those eyes.
They were aflame.
They were hungry.
We had obliterated him.
I stood and drew myself up to my full height in front of the mirror.
I’d killed me.
I was born again.