Sage - The Repossession (unfinished)

>You are Anonymous
>Over the past couple of years, you have had the fortune and misfortune of meeting many people, most of whom have done nothing but piss you off.
>Your life was never very bright. You were never very social, and friendship couldn’t seem to find you. In your life, you’d had 6 friends. They all, however, had moved away many years ago, leaving you to fare in this pathetic world that we call earth.
>It didn’t help at all that your father had always been abusive towards you.
>The fucker never gave a damn about you, only about his god damned bitch of a girlfriend.
>If there had been anything good about your father at all though, then it was his job. He was a terrible person, but he had money. You suppose that might be something to be thankful for.
>But still, that wasn’t enough to transcend the lines drawn by the atrocities committed against you, far from it.
>You wanted to make the world burn, you wanted everyone in the god damn city of Canterlot to pay. It only seemed fair.
>It was revenge that you wanted, but how to go about attaining it was a subject of wide contemplation.
>You spend hours thinking of the possibilities, ways to inflict the most damage, to cause the most disturbance.
>There had been quite a few school shootings in recent years…
>But that wouldn’t be very original, would it?
>Kill enough students and the media would be all over the shit, not to mention the politicians...
>…
>Fuck originality.
>If you went in for a shooting, you could send personal messages to those who had wronged you.
>The problem was that since you lacked the skills necessary for a job, coupled with absence of support from your father, you had no money. You needed to acquire a weapon somehow.
>Then you remember, your father had guns.
>You didn’t bother trying to know his history; all you knew was that he was a gun enthusiast.
>You would just need to wait until he got home.


>T-hat’s right! The guns! They could be useful. You could actually teach them, teach them all!
>Dear father would come first, the favor would be returned that way.
>Then, naturally, Canterlot High would come next. They were clueless as to what you were soon intending to wring upon them.
>They would be like animals, helpless, with their fate resting solely in your hands, literally. There would be blood, and much of it.
- - -
>You are Twilight Sparkle.
>And you seem to be slightly nervous.
>For slightly more than half of your life, you had lived in Manhattan, studying under a renowned scientist in the field of physics
>It had been a nice portion of your educational career, having becoming accustomed to the hustle and bustle of the big city.
>But then everything changed when you received a letter of transfer.
>To the city of Canterlot, your birthplace.
>You actually hadn’t been to your hometown in a little bit more than 9 years.
>It was where you and your friends had grown up, sort of. The day you all had split up was hard on everyone.
>Probably none more so than the only boy in the group.
>You think his name was Anonymous.
>You’d all gotten along pretty well, but your other friends lost contact with him after the move happened.
>Such a shame that all good things must eventually come to an end.
>You are abruptly ripped from your thoughts by the roar of the train you were situated in.
>Perhaps it would be the better idea to diverge from distractions from the time-being, seeing as how you were facing a ridiculously rigid agenda in Canterlot.
>Being a student in your senior year, there wasn’t a great deal left before your further movement to a higher institution.
>But this final step had to be taken.
>There was just this last stretch. It was immediately before your graduation, at which point you would have a year of from education, before moving to a university, of course.
>When all was to be said and done, things would be well.

>There you now stalked, Anonymous, lying in wait for your prey.
>The firearms weren’t hard to get a hold of at all. They were leaning against a wall right up in the god damned closet.
>Not exactly what you had hoped for, but it would surely be able to get the job done.
>Intratec TEC-DC9 (9-mm semiautomatic handgun). Fine, but seemed impractical for a large number of targets. Then again, what did you know about guns? Other than how to shoot one, of course.
>A shotgun. (Savage-Springfield 67H 12-gauge pump shotgun. Stock and barrel sawed off, reducing gun to 26 inches.) Sure, why not. A shotgun’s a shotgun.
>Then the rifle. (10-shot Hi-point model 995 carbine rifle on a strap.
>The ordinance was ready, and the wait had begun.
>It had been around an hour and a half, and it would be as many as necessary. For the moment, patience would be your ally.
>Dear father could be home at any moment, and you wanted to be ready for him, to welcome him home with a dinner packed in ice. .
>You therefore sat alone, silently, in the kitchen of your dark house.
>Free with your thoughts(not that you weren’t always lonely), your mind begins to wander during the wait.
>You are excited, pumped, glad to have the opportunity and the will to actually end Daddy’s wretched life; blood running, muscles itching to be worked.
>Of greater anticipation, however, was the collective response of Canterlot High’s student body-that entity which was partially responsible for causing your spirit to erode to ash- to your “cleansing”.
>The faculty were not too be spared, this was an indiscriminate operation. They did nothing to ease you pain, so they too shall suffer.
>**Realistically though, one should look at the truth, away from their passion, and steel themselves for what needs to be done. You cannot hope to kill them all.*

“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!!”
>You are stolen from your own thoughts as you vanquish the pessimistic sentiment.
>You knew what you wanted, and you would not waver.
>For now though, the wait would have to continue.

- - - - - - - - -
>He stumbles upon his home, drunken, largely carefree.
>The man appears to be so out of it, in fact, that he doesn’t seem to notice that it’s nearly pitch black inside the home.
>As he makes his way through the front, entering the kitchen, the man continues to stumble in the dark and curses an irritated roar, having hit his toe on the furniture.
>F: “GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!!”, the father roars.
>F: “That fucking boy, has he got no damn sense of responsibility?”
>F: “HEY! Where are you? Get out here you little piece o’ shit!.”

- - - - - - - - -

>You sat there quietly, taking in every word that came out of his mouth. >His last words might have actually meant something to you were it not for the hormones in your bloodstream, not to mention the years of abuse and neglect.
>Your weapons are at the ready.
>As your grip tightens around the pistol and knife in your right and left hands, and your father continued to be oblivious to your presence, the air grew noticeably warmer.
>He comes nearer, attempting to find the way out of the kitchen and to the stairs.
As father heads out of the kitchen, you step in front, stopping him in his tracks.
>F: “Shit. HEY, WHAT GIVES?!WHO THE FU-“
>The sentence goes unfinished. The blade comes first, the dull edge dragging across the flesh of the forehead.
>That didn’t quite work the way you wanted it to. You should really learn to take better care of your stuff.
>With as much strength as you are able to muster, you kick him in the head, also plunging the knife in the abdomen in an effort to penetrate the skin and spill blood.
>You kick him again, and again… and again...

>In a matter of minutes, there the bastard lies, partially beaten and bruised.
>One supposes that you could end it here, but it wouldn’t have been enough fun if it ended here like this. Then you get an idea.
>After a few minutes of rummaging through drawers, you come across the particular item you had been looking for: the cake knife.
>Making your way over to the man on the ground, you go to work at the arm; forward-backward, forward-backward.
>This goes on for a good half hour. After some time though, the cut is only about a third or so of the way through the shoulder, but you hadn’t hit bone yet. Could you even cut through bone with this?
>… Fuck this shit.
>This would probably take a lot longer than you had anticipated, and you’d actually exhausted your reserves of patience waiting for this very douchebag to arrive.
>The knife is discarded, signifying the near end of this little session.

>So there he sat, in a chair, with a deep-ass fucking cut in his shoulder. His wrist and ankles had also been crudely bound to the legs of the chair with shoelaces. You didn’t exactly know your knots.
>But you didn’t bother trying to do anything about it. It didn’t matter
>Nothing mattered except revenge.
>You now stand before him, a pistol pointed right at the motherfucking cranium.
>Before the trigger is finally pulled, however, a tired voice confronts you.
>F: “You fucking piece of shit. What do you think you’re doing? I raise you, I give you a home for 15 years, and this is how you repay me? I’m going to enjoy the day you burn in hell, retard.”
>The handle of the weapon comes down with considerable force upon his head.
>A painful grunt is almost enough of a response for your satisfaction. Almost.
>The knife is brought to bear on his person, and is dug into the leg at a relatively shallow depth.
>You procede to carve a symbol into his skin, as if you were carving into the bark of a tree.
>It was the letter “A”.
>As he makes his cries of pain, you marvel at the ease with which human flesh can be cut.
>And, as you finish drawing the A in his skin, before entirely removing the blade, you’re sure to give it a violent twist, causing goose bumps to begin to protrude from your upper extremities.
>At this point though, there’s nothing really left to be done. Now you’re just dragging it out. There was no point in keeping him alive any longer.
>As your hand draws the handgun once again, you notice that your arm is shaking, and that there is no feeling as of now but anxiety.
>The man you called father for 15 years, good as dead.
>There is a momentary pause, perhaps one of contemplation. This was really happening, but it was already too late to go back.

>Missing a beat or so, the gun is raised, poised, and, after what seemed like years of procrastination and stress in the making, fired with a satisfying bang.
>A red hole then appeared in the frontal lobe, but, in appearance, failed to go straight through.
>There was a pause, and the moment allowed itself to sink in.
>He was motionless, completely unresponsive. Even so, you weren’t completely sure that he was dead.
>You fired again. Another hole appeared.
>The bang of the shot sounded so delightful.
>Another shot rang out, and another… and another…
>Each individual shot was like an audible orgasm.

>As you relished in the moment, you failed to realize that the magazine had been emptied. Therefore, the weapon was now only clicking.
>You pull the trigger a couple of more times, hoping to attain a different result; no such luck.
>It was allowed to drop out of your hand and hit the floor with a pronounced thud, and, for several moments, you did nothing but stand there.
>Your thoughts are even silent. There was, at the moment, no noise or mental activity whatsoever; complete stagnation.
>The body lays still on the floor, a look of boredom on its face.
>It was actually a look of mockery. In death, the bastard was mocking you.
>You lift the body by the underarms, dragging it to the kitchen and settling it in a chair at the dining table.
>Just slumped over, without a care in the world.
>Because that’s enough excitement for today.
>Energy must be conserved for tomorrow.
>Now, however, shall be the time for sustenance.
>Your father, having been the “man” that he was, never really took the effort to see to it that you were properly fed.
>As a result, there was little of nutritional value in the house aside from cereal from a year and a half ago; or, for you anyway.
>Father had a personal refrigerator in his room, but kept it locked.
>Satan knows where he stored the code to unlock it.
>You, Anonymous, situated yourself in a chair at the table with the dried flakes, across from the shell of what was one your “father”.
>The “meal” progressed, expectedly, in silence, as you ate while intensely interrogating the corpse with your eyes.
>The current situation reminded you of a family more traditional than yours, per say. It seemed to be reminiscent of a more stable relationship; you, at the table, seated peacefully, in the company of your father. A setting such as this nearly impressed upon you the feeling of relief, as if a lifetime of problems had suddenly been absolved.
>Almost.

>No, the rest of society still had to pay as well. They would not be forgiven so easily.
>There was a plan, and it was not to be abandoned. You were going to follow through, to deliver to the world what it was owed.
>It would all come in short time.
>Time. There wasn’t much of it left.
>You had the opportunity to catch maybe 4 hours of sleep, 5 at the most.
>With that in mind, you resigned yourself to one more night’s slumber on earth.
>Soon you would be above everyone else, you would be an object of fear; an instrument.
>But one of pure self-actualization
>…
>But you weren’t going to spend this final night on Earth alone.
>For the first time in what seemed like years, and probably would be, you were going to have a “guest” over.
>You made your way out the front door of the house, headed straight for that of your neighbor. She was a bitch, but she would do.
>No time was wasted. With a forceful kick, the door failed to come off of its hinges.
>Fuck it. You had to run all the way back to the house to grab a silencer.
>You didn’t think you would be using it at all.
>And in relatively little time, you were back, again at the front door of your neighbor’s house.
>Several kicks still failed to bring the door down.
>Looks like it’s plan B after all then.
>In this, you promptly put a few bullets into the glass of the door, easily shattering it.
>As you invade the home, you come face to face with your bitch of a neighbor.
>It seems she was trying to keep quiet, probably hoping that whoever was beating on her door would give up. Tough luck.
>T: “W-what gives?! You dare intrude on the home of the great and powerful Trixie?! I’ll let you know that I have-
>You really weren’t in the mood for all her condescending bullshit.
>You put a bullet in her leg, showing no sign of sympathy or hesitance.
>She tries to let out a sustained scream, but you don’t let her.

>She is only able to get out short cry of pain before you have her mouth covered and her body wrapped in your arms.
>Maybe it would be better to put a bullet in her other leg; that way she won’t offer as much resistance.

>With a crack, another shot rings out.
>The “Great and Powerful” Trixie now has 2 bullets inside of her, yet the binding on her mouth somewhat muffles the sound to a satisfactory volume.
When the bullet hit her, she jumped, yet only for a moment, before settling back into the hardwood floor, little other choice left to her. This was all the while exclaiming in pain
>Interesting. You wonder: Would someone react that way wherever they were shot?
>The idea to toy with her a bit runs through your mind, and you stop to consider it.
>You would need to be careful. If you shot her in the wrong place or too many times, she would bleed out and die, which wasn’t exactly in your best interest.
>Decisions, Decisions. Things were never easy, were they?
> Ah what the hell; she could survive a couple of holes, right?
>Upon coming to this conclusion, you take aim at her arm and fire.
>You missed
>Fuck; you really were going to need to be better at this by tomorrow if you hoped to make the intended impression.
>Let’s try that again.
>As the weapon is raised for the umpteenth time, Trixie realizes what is about to happen, and the tears are finally visible. Her eyes are obviously making a plea for mercy. Who would have thought it? Trixie is trying to beg. Not so arrogant now, is she?
>You take aim again, taking more time to ensure that the shot is lined up with your plane of view. The shot is then taken.
>This one meets its target, and leaves a fresh hole in the flesh of the right arm of its victim.
>She responds by flexing her arm, adducting the limb in an apparent effort to relieve her displeasure.
>Doesn’t quite look like it’s doing much good.
>You just stand there a moment, watching her try to deal with her current wounds. She’s having a lot of trouble with the rope you used on her.
>How about just one moore…

>This time, it happens much more quickly. The bullet hits its target on the first attempt. Maybe your getting better at this. Or, maybe the target was just easier to hit.
>The bullet hits Trixie in the shoulder, causing her to jerk back, falling down onto the hardwood floor, all her strength depleted.
>Interesting.
>She probably wouldn’t be able to take any more hits, though.
>This was going to have to be enough. You had no complaints; this had, so far, been unraveling into an easy night.
>You put your arm around Trixie’s neck and dragged her out of the house, careful to close the door to hers very quietly.
>Before long, the both of you were in your own humble abode, traversing the first floor and heading to the main stairway. But then you remembered.
>Your “father” was still “slumped” over in a chair in the dining room, meaning you would have to hull the dead body up the stairs.
>Fuck.
>This was all playing out to be more work than you’d hoped anticipated. Maybe you should have thought things through a bit more carefully.
>But there was no turning back now.
>You suppose first thing’s first: Trixie.
>It was an easy enough time getting her up to the bedroom, considering she had a bullet in each leg, an arm, and a shoulder. Would that be ok? You’re no medical or firearms expert, so you’re not even sure whether she should be dead or alive at this point.
>At least she’s being compliant. You really needed to do this before everybody died. If Trixie were to go now, then pretty much everything that had happened in the last 40 minutes would have been an enormous waste of time, not that you had much else planned
>Regardless of uncertainties, however, now was to come the hard part.
>You father weighed a good deal more than you did.
>Hauling that body was going to be a pain in the ass, but so were you.

>You heave the carcass, it hanging halfway on you, the other half slumping toward the ground.
>Making some progress at least
>You attempt to inch toward the staircase with the body as it is.
>This proves to be effective for a moment or two, before the body slips off of you.
>The face hits the hardwood floor with a resonating bang.
>Good thing it’s dead; otherwise, it would be pissed at you right now.
>This cycle repeats itself several times. You attempt to hull your father to and up the stairs, only to find that you simply lack the strength.
>On one try, you’d actually managed to get to the third step, only to lose your grip on the arm, allowing the body to fall freely.
>It was quite frustrating, really.
>You’d probably already wasted around 20 minutes with this.
>The entire time, Trixie had remained silent.
>That, or she had died/ passed out. But for all you knew, the three of those possibilities were equally likely.
>It would be nice to believe that, as powerful and great that she claimed to be, she could hold out for more than an hour, but there was no certainty in it.
>You should probably go and check on her.
>…
>After you get this fucking body to the second floor
>It takes a few minutes, but another idea comes to you.
>Really, it amazes you how you didn’t think of this sooner.
>You grab your father from the underarm, moving backward toward the stair.
>This time around, the steps are taking one at a time.
>As the both of you ascend, with each step, you both take a seat, planting your gluteal maxima on the stair before moving on to the next.
>It expended great energy, but at the same time, seemed to be working well.
>Before much more time has passed, you’ve actually made it to the top.
>Hurray for perseverance.
>And speaking of perseverance…
>Yep, figures.
>Trixie was out like a light. It appeared that the night had taken a lot out of her