Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.
It was raining again.
And each time a raindrop fell, it brought with it the agonizing pain and mourning that seeped from the spirits of his victims, subjecting him to the torture he once inflicted on them.
Singling him out, paying their revenge.
And as he angled his face to the sky, the raindrops fell harder. Each individually attacking him with their own unique misery; a never ending torrent of reminders, of all the murders he had committed, the whispers of his victims.
He closed his eyes against the grey mass of clouds, listening to the rain splatter on his uniform – a mere echo of the blood that had once splashed across him, darkening, staining.
It rained today like it rained every day in that dreaded war.
It rained then, even when the sun was shining.
It rained those days despite the constant presence of the scorching sun, a violent flow raging through the sand, depriving the already deceased land of the little life it had left.
Each scream and each whimper and each gasp of horror rained on his heart, stabbing it with the unavoidable noise of the death of millions combined – and he couldn't do anything about it.
Because it was all his fault.
The rain brought with it every life he had taken. The lives he had snatched away, without even asking. Thief.
And with just a snap of his fingers, it would rain even harder, thundering – no cracks of lightning to illuminate the sky, just a continuous tedious grey.
As it rained today, he remembered the faces of the people he slaughtered, the face of the confused child, quiet amid the millions of questions left unanswered, the face of the defeated mother, broken, surrendered.
The face of the little girl, who looked up at the shining sun and wondered why it was raining so heavily in the eyes of her murderer, why the look in his eyes echoed that of the eyes of the dead and dieing that littered the streets she once played in.
He remembered the terror that resonated through the city streets, resounding back to him from all directions, targeting him and only him, ignoring all his comrades.
They saw only him.
Because he had killed so many, so many.
Opening his eyes to the sky - he saw the raindrops fall directly onto his face, each piercing him with enough force to make him wince – an unrelenting barricade of needles aimed only for him.
With Central Head Quarters behind him, and the familiar roads ahead, he remembered the days of war again and again, reliving the moments that killed him as he stood and watched them all suffer.
He knew what to do. It was a routine task. Everyone had to do it at some point.
Looking around him at the dawning day, as the night began to slide away and the morning murder spree began again, he would join them.
He would join them and he would kill and he would suffer. He would not die, but he must have – he was just a shell. A cracked and broken shell.
He clicked his fingers at the target, and it immediately burst into flames. Done. It crumbled, the dancing shadows of the flames licking the walls of the surrounding buildings, listening silently to the screams that reverberated to his very soul.
He watched as the building fell, bringing with it the lives within – the young, the old, the innocent.
And he watched as his hand fell down to his side, the task was done and he was complimented.
Praised that he had done the job well – that he had killed good, that he had murdered quite nicely. That he had ripped the lives from people rather gracefully, even if the screaming could still be heard. It was a job well done. He should feel proud.
The memories continued, and he let them. He let them run their course, wreaking havoc in his mind – strangling any wandering strands of pleasure that were brave enough to pierce the sinister depths of his frayed mentality. He deserved it.
He deserved every second of it.
And he definitely didn't deserve her.
The rain stopped all too suddenly, and his onyx eyes he had briefly closed sprang open, only to see the inside of an umbrella. The gloomy sky was gone, and so was the rain, he could still hear it, but now he could see her.
And that was enough to drown out any sound at all.
Because every time he looked into those eyes he dived into a wave of serene calmness. Not drowning, he floated, he swam, and he drank in her amber eyes, her pale skin and the few strands of golden hair that escaped the tight bun at the back of her head, swaying lazily in the breeze.
'Riza...' he whispered, barely audible, but loud enough. His guilt completely overshadowed by her beauty, by her ability to completely override any of his prior emotions.
By her ability to make him whole again. And by her ability to instantly acknowledge even the tiniest ounce of any emotion in him, no matter how good a façade he showed to the public. She knew.
'I'm here, sir' she said, stating the obvious, yet anchoring him to the ground just by uttering those simple words. She allowed a small, sad smile to grace her features, all the while letting him know that she understood.
That she knew him well; he had always hated the rain.