Persecution. Thirty-Five

A body flew through the open door and cracked into the wall on the opposite side of the hallway. Little attention was paid to see if that person got back up, but he didn't care at all. The things bleeding into his vision and the words blurring in his ears were a jumbled mess that collected in a darker part of his mind that he couldn't reach anymore. His anger was much more prominent and he lost connection with the logical part of his brain that was screaming at him to stop before he made a regrettable mistake. It was too bad, really, because the regrettable mistake had already been made and could never be reversed.

If he had known it would come to this, then he would never have allowed himself to be pinned down and punished for the crime of giving his love to another person. He would never have allowed the other person to suffer the things he clearly suffered. If the worst thing he ever did in his life was find solace in the arms of someone bearing the same physical structure, then he was painfully wronged here.

No, he knew he was wronged no matter how horrible that seemed to society. Good feelings left him the moment his mind had been flooded with the outlines and traces of his partner. His partner was gone, wrung out of his own body by his despair at the same loss Kanda was feeling then. Romeo and Juliet never had life as unjust as they were living. No matter which way it was spun, he hadn't deserved this. After what they'd done to him before.

After Alma.

They owed him. They owed him so much that he could taste the blood of his anger blossoming over his tongue like a spicy midnight craving. That taste was so strong that it curled his lip to a feral snarl and he gritted his teeth to bite back the furious hiss that pressed to pass. Anyone standing before him would be stupid to test his control now and judging by the hesitance to enter the room, he knew they weren't going to make blind risks while his sanity was absolutely questionable.

His boot dipped into the warm blood of his accuser and he lifted his foot to step through the doorway and leave the chilling red print clear in the marble. He hadn't spilled the blood, but he wouldn't care much if they assumed he had. After all, he was punished worse on far lesser crimes. The speckled red across the glassy floor attested to the grave injury of the person he'd bodily forced out of the chamber.

They should know his strength. They made him. They should know his anger. They did it. They should feel his wrath, because they flourished it and made it grow into this trembling, noxious abomination that wanted to wring the life out of anything he could curl his fingers around. They started this.

And he was going to finish it.

The people trying to surround him didn't really have a chance and some of them had to know it. Finders and CROW given orders to take the front line and most likely die; that's what these poor bastards were. They were just pawns to be used and disposed of and he was infuriated in it. It disgusted him that they so readily threw themselves in front of him—knowing that, if pushed, he could and would kill any one of them. It disgusted him more that he had essentially been that. He let this organization violate him in his life, his death and his rebirth and then take away the only semblance of sanity he was starting to believe he had.

There was no way he could feel this desolate and not have felt vast value in what was ripped from him. It hurt at his soul and the worst part was he couldn't even explain it entirely.

The empty feeling in his chest drowned out the unsettling crunch of his fist slamming a faceless person into the wall beside the other person. He didn't have an ounce of focus on the people trying to desperately to contain him. He didn't have a shred of morality to stop from wrenching the knife from the CROW man and gutting him across the belly—leaving blood to spill out across the floor and stain the front of his jacket. Who cared? They were worthless. They had life spans only as long as they were permitted to have and that was it.

Just like he only had freedom for as long as it benefitted them. He was only allowed to be in love with the God that chose to damn him from his birth to his impending death. He didn't believe for a moment he would walk away from this building alive. There were too many exorcists and too many Generals in one location. That was just as well. There was no purpose in living to protect a world that wouldn't grant you the one sliver of hope and happiness.

He'd murdered his best friend because they couldn't keep their noses out of the domain of God. They took someone else important from him and he will never remember her. And then this.

Another body went slack in his hands—fingers crushing a fragile windpipe and snapping a weak neck. Another pawn tipped over and he pushed his way down the dank hall. The smell of blood was so much stronger than it should be, but possibly it was because it was drizzling down his face and he'd yet to wipe it clean. He didn't care. He didn't have time to care.

He was fully aware of the man following him out of the room—of the carnage that he too left as they tried fruitlessly to stop him. That was perfectly fine. This man who had erased what he couldn't remember had set him free—a gift horse not to be looked in the mouth. Because, if there was nothing else he did in his life, he would destroy those that destroyed him—no matter who stood in his way.

The girl with the wide eyes and the pleading face and the redheaded boy beside her weren't worth a second glance. Because he'd kill them too if they stood in his way.

A/N: Will aim for another chapter soon.