When you kill someone for the first time, it's not guilt the first thing that strucks you.
Because a life is something strong and complicated. When the blood runs down your hands, you look around yourself to try to find the wound. It always takes some time to notice you're not the bleeding one. And then, it just doesn't feel real. It's difficult to believe. Even if you hated that person more than anything else in the whole world, there's always that feeling.
And then there is the realization. And you can only feel one of these three things.
- Guilt. It's the general one, a burden that can kill you, a face that will haunt you at night and won't let you sleep never again. Probably accompanied by shame.
- Pride. The psychokillers, the serial killers, always clinically mad people, can feel pride when they kill. It's people who doesn't know guilt. Or shame.
That's what she felt right now, staring at the body at her feet, at the blood trail which soaked her shoes. The dagger she held in her hand dropped fresh blood. The irony, she thought. Warm blood is the fresh one. She glared at the ripped flesh, at the hands that would never lay a hand on her brother again. Because she was tired of staring at his pain, and the blood she was now staring, glaring at, didn't resemble his, although it was the same. Because it was filthy. Dark and thick, while Michael's looked like rubies shining in the light. This couldn't be the same blood.
She raised the dagger, cleaned it and cut her own arm. And sighed in relief once again, because her blood, her open flesh, did look like rubies. Did look like his.
She threw the dagger to the floor. She stood up and went away. What had to be done, had been done. She looked at her father's face for the last time and spit on his lips.
He would never touch them again. And she knew, as she cuddled her bloodied body against Michael's asleep one, that he would understand, and protect her. Who wouldn't?
- Janet? Janet? You were smiling last night a lot, I'm sorry, but we have to wake up. What were you dreaming?
- Nothing, Michael... Just something I'd wish to do but I can't...
She got up. Someday, she'd snatch him from their father's terrible claws. She swore. But it was not the day, today.
But she'd so it, as sure as her name was Janet Jackson.