Waiting to Go to Hell

I belong here. Ash grey concrete, fist fights, and cavity searches. But I don't dwell in a cramped cage, not yet. I shuffle through the shit storm, they scream in a hundred different languages as I pass, but the words all mean the same thing. They can recognize one of their own. They know I belong in prison.

I push through the doors and out into the smoggy air. The cigarette between my lips only adds to the thick clouds, but I puff away because there are more important things to focus on. I jog down the strip of blacktop towards the ferry. Its slipping away from the dock so I lung for it. My claws grip the side and despite the shrill scream from above, I scramble onto the deck. 

The family members that had dared venture in to see their incarcerated relatives, shrink back against the other side of the boat. I lean casually against the railing for the next hour, and, not surprisingly, am the last one to step onto the dock. 

By my calculations I have maybe one month left before the authorities get their heads out of their asses and catch me. That's a max of 47 days to pillage every cabinet of jewels and scoop out entrails from every victim I can hunt down.

I can't start here. I'll have to hitch a ride to another town. Too many people here have been victimized by me in one way or another, and while I have no problem doubling back around to familiar territory, I've found that most of the time you come back to find a shattered soul who can't put up a decent fight. And where's the fun in that? 

Speaking of fun, I detour for the crumbled side of town where I truly belong.

Y'see, I can really appreciate a good cliché. Being a murderer doesn't rule out a sense of humor. So every once in a while I saunter downtown to the spot where the rich kids sit, pretending to smoke and acting like they belong there with my kind. I pick myself up a pretty little angel and start something up. I love the way they act like they can change me, when all I'm doing is waiting to fuck their brains out and, if I'm lucky, get a little soot on their wings in the process. It ruins them, I think, and that's what pleases me. Destruction is the most natural thing in the world.

The kids are out, so I let a plucky, hopefully gal take me to "the most inspiring place on the planet". She's right, it inspires me. When I'm done she can't stand up straight enough to examine the gashes on her thighs. And the flies on the corpse, sooty wings.

All warmed up, I take to the streets. A magic vender pisses me off so I choke him and steal his stash. Some of the stuff is good to mix with booze, makes it pack a larger punch. The rest I take simply so the day is a complete loss for him. 

I snarl at everyone I pass on my way back to my hole. My pile of newspapers and stolen goods reek of piss and mold. I toss my haul in a crate and crash down onto the heap. 

I wait until even the rats have gone to sleep before I hunt for the night's victim. I find her, one of those mutated fairies who are like six feet tall. She's a freaky mutant, not that they're usually normal and pretty anyways, but she's almost tall enough to look into my eyes, which is unsettling. 

Feeling peckish and impatient, I just go for the kill strike straight from the get go. I rip her apart, cursing her sparkly aftertaste. I hear rushed foot steps bouncing off the alley walls and swear repeatedly in my native tongue, which to the cops probably sounds like I'm grounding up nails in my throat. Someone retches as they reach me, and I consider using this distraction to escape. But I can admit defeat. They strap me in restraints, neck, wrist, ankle, and jaw, then drag me to a heavily armored transport vehicle.

Squished between four metal walls I sit, knowing I'm finally ending up where I belong. On that miserable island, for eight hundred years while they sort through the red tape and realize I belong somewhere worse. I'd shrug if I could, but there isn't nearly enough room. S'posed I'd better get used to small spaces...