1st person account

Something splashed me in the face, and I recoiled, spitting and cursing, and looked right up at the liquid vapor spewing from the vent on the wall three feet above my head. As I stared, the spray twitched, dwindled, and then died as the tanks concealed behind the vent went dry. Empty. Done.

I turned to see that most of the other vents had already stopped.

I saw Santoro crawling away from me.

He was laughing.

I laughed, too.

Except it wasn’t a laugh.

What came from my mouth was a full-throated roar of pure, savage, intense rage.

My vision changed from clarity to crimson distortion. I saw monster shapes all around me. Leering, slavering beasts who wanted to kill me. They came at me with fangs and black talons. There was a black knot of fear deep inside my chest, but it was buried beneath a thousand layers of fury.

There was no Santoro, no Eve, no Kuga, and no Fixers. No Bedlam Team, either.

There was no Church or Belle, no Top, Bunny, or Andrea. No presidents or guards or press or civilians.

I staggered into a big room, to where people were fighting. It made me happy. It made me mad. I should be doing this. All of it. The stabbing and biting. That was mine to do. Mine.

All there were, everywhere I looked, were people I hated. No, more than hated. Despised with every fiber of who I was. It was a loathing that tunneled down into my DNA, into my soul.

I saw a big man on the stage. Familiar. I knew him and hated him more than all the others. He was bleeding from gunshot wounds, but still sitting up. Still firing a gun. The bastard. I despised everything about him. He needed to be stopped. He needed to die. I ran toward him. Something was wrong with my leg. I could not run as fast as my hate. God, I wanted to kill them all. Now. In bad ways. In ugly, ugly ways that would ruin them and everyone who loved them. My muscles were tight with the need to hurt them. The pain in my side and my leg—that was fuel for the fire that burned inside of me. I found my knife on the floor and snatched it up with a howl of triumph. Sweet, beautiful knife. Red and silver and perfect. Now I could do it. Now I could cut into them, cut them apart, cut the evil from them and rub it all over me. I wanted—needed—to bathe in their blood. To drink it and spit it back in their faces. I wanted to crack their bones open and suck out the marrow.

I ran toward the injured man. Howling at him. Telling him the things I was going to do to him. I wanted to paint the walls with the red lies of their lives and—

“Sorry, boss,” said a voice and Belle—that hateful bitch who deserved to die like the backstabbing traitor she was—pointed a gun at me and fired.
-Rage pg. 440-442, Kindle Edition.