It was war.
The slashing of swords and the hammering of fists echoed in my ears as I hid behind a rubbish bin in a dark alleyway, hidden from view. I was a good guy, one of them, someone who supposedly saved everyone from evil.
But I wasn’t brave enough to fight, I was too weak to hold a sword. Too cowardly to overcome my fears of battle. I heard voices approach, so I hid further into the shadows. Two figures emerged and stood directly in front of me, they didn’t seem aware of the fact that I was there, but I could see them, smell the whisky on their breath. One of them wore the symbol of a tree on their uniform, which symbolised light. The other wore a black, bloodstained shirt with the symbol of a raven, which symbolised darkness.
“Give me my son!” I heard the man from the light side growl.
“I never took your son!” Replied the guy from the dark side.
“You did, and you know it!”
“I never took your son,” whispered the bad guy hoarsely.
“Liar!” The good guy cried, drawing his sword from the sheath on his belt.
“No, please! I never did anything to you or your son-”
“Silence!” cried the good guy. He plunged the jewel encrusted sword into the bad guy’s heart. The bad guy groaned and slumped onto the ground, forming a puddle of blood around him.
Then the ‘good guy’ with the symbol of a tree on his shirt straightened out and walked away.
I crept over the dead man in the corner and pulled the sword from his chest. Blood poured onto my hands and dripped onto my pale uniform, staining it red. I looked down at the poor soldier lying motionless on the floor, the injustice of it burned in my eyes. Good guys should save, not kill. A good guy who kills is just as bad as a bad guy.
Why be branded as a good guy when you’re doing ‘bad guy’ stuff anyway?
Me, a bad guy? The thought appeals to me.
Afterall, whoever said you can’t be the bad guy in your own story?
It was war.
The slashing of swords and the hammering of fists echoed in my ears as I walked out onto the battlefield. I was a bad guy, one of them, someone that supposedly brought nothing but sorrow and grief to people.
I was brave enough to fight, I was strong enough to hold a sword. Confident to overcome my fears of battle.
Nothing phased me. I was the strongest soldier in the team, the one that slayed people like the animals they were, and let them rot like they deserved.
I gripped the jewel encrusted dagger that I’d pulled from that man’s chest all those years ago, when I’d first witnessed the injustice of killing innocent people. When I’d first become a bad guy.
One of the good guys lunged at me, and I pretended not to notice, leading him on. At the last moment, I turned around and threw my sword at his chest. It sank deeper into his flesh, and he cried out in agony as it hit his heart.
I remained unphased, unchanged, and evermore deadly.
I waited until the man was properly dead before I removed my sword from his heart. His blood poured out onto my hands, like the blood had poured from the bad guy in the alleyway. For a second I forgot myself, I was helpless, cowardly and weak.
This gave the opposition the advantage, and they struck me, burying their sword deep into my thigh. I roared in pain, and pulled it from my flesh. My face contorted in agony, and I thrust the sword into the man’s stomach. He withered in pain. I watched as his blood mingled with mine.
How could a blood so full of hatred and evil merge with a blood so pure and innocent?
I tore a piece of material off my uniform to wrap around the deep wound in my thigh. I winced as I watched the blood soaking into the fabric, despite my efforts. The good guys were paying me no attention.
I was injured, not worth the time it took to kill someone. I was as good as gone now anyway.
But I didn’t like being ignored, nor did I like the good guys to be victorious over me. With an agonising groan, I stood and hobbled over to where a good guy was lying unconscious. Was I the only sensible person around here? Unconcious or not, this man could slaughter us in our beds, kill our families, murder our friends. I grabbed my sword and watched in silent satisfaction as his blood poured out onto the grass, staining it red, like the blood had stained my uniform in the alleyway that day. Desperation haunted my eyes like a shadow trapped against its will. It needed to be free, and the only way to freedom was to take lives, to kill. The fierce glint in my eyes blazed like a flame that was barely contained. Like a wild beast, like an animal. Like me.
I slaughtered, I killed, I murdered and was unashamed of my merciless deeds. I was broken, and in need of repair. But repair never came my way. Or if it did, it was dead before it reached me, at the hand of the sword. I charged in a one-man stampede, thrusting my sword into the heart of every man that dared to lay a hand on me. Even my own team feared me, and I liked it like that, despite the loneliness I felt every time I celebrated my victories, alone. My face housed a frown that never went outside the lines slowly forming around my mouth. It was there even when I was bleeding, in pain and even when I was satisfied. But I was never satisfied. No matter how many children I slaughtered, no matter how many had died by my sword, I was never satisfied.
I was a bad guy, one of them. I was ruthless and unforgiving. My blood was born under a different light, my soul was birthed under the moon. My heart was empty, my blood blackened by hatred. I was a nobody, a murderer, a villian.
A bad guy.