Hilt of a Blacksmith

I don't enjoy killing people. I don't enjoy ripping out the soul from its flesh. That just drops a lifeless corpse to the ground, cold as ice.
I enjoy my knife, though. My knife doesn't kill, it stabs. The death is their own fault.
My knife lets a person bleed. It lets many people bleed. Red as ruby nectar drips, sometimes gushes, from their body. They fall. Still alive. Still breathing. I imagine licking their blood from the ground, as it's delicious. It must taste horrible. But it feeds my needs and desires and gives me life.
It only lasts a short while though. The blood drains and death steals the soul from me. I like it when they contort their faces in pain. I enjoy their blood and watch them slowly die. I don't like it when the energy, the fight for life, simply leaves.
This is why I hate death. I would stab him if I could, but I can't. I can't touch him. He doesn't hear me yell at him. I scream at the top of my lungs, but my words fade, he ignores me.
I stab more and more to keep a sense of euphoria. Whether it be men, women, children, elders, I don't care. I need my distraction. I would surely go crazy if I didn't. Death taunts me enough.
I hate it when I get no rush. This one girl. Striding down the street. She annoyed the shit out of me. There was a solid emotionless expression on her face. I walked up to her. Unsheathed my blade. A very clean slice into her stomach. She coughed blood. Stomach fluid. She fell. I laughed. I watched over her.
She held that expression. There was no emotion on her face. I was enraged. I stabbed her, again and again. She never cringed. Death stole her soul before I could embrace it. I cried.
And cried.
And laughed.
And I wanted more. Still, I want more. I need that euphoria. I refuse to let him taunt me.
A few people later that night also tried to fight back at me. That was very fun. Bullets went through my host's head many times. Through his chest. Through his legs. I smiled. I stabbed, just once, enough to make them drop. They dropped and they dropped blood. Fear and pain froze on their faces. Euphoria.
Since that day I've gone through a few hosts. It's been 200 years. My creator is long gone, but I still live on with his desires.
Category:Items/Objects
Category:Demon/Devil
Category:Mental Illness