Hippocratic Oath
Tick Tock goes the clock.
It’s a heartbeat, my ever-present companion in the starched-white walls, floors, and ceiling. I find the color incredibly distasteful, but the Medical Board declared it to be a calming color and necessary for the mental integrity of the patients in Heilengiest Hospital.
I am Doctor Sirus, M.D. Employee of Heilengiest Hospital in Canterlot. Head of the General Surgery Department.
I can’t wait to leave.
If I was actually performing some type of surgery, I might not have the overwhelming wave of apathy flooding my mind. I hate being bored, but as there is nothing pressing for me to do, I am assigned to clinic duty.
Tick Tock goes the clock.
Some poor colt had jumped off his house in an attempt to fly. At least he had the foresight to try it over a hay cart before the inevitable failure. He sits in a wheelchair with both legs carefully propped up to prevent any more unnecessary damage. His mother stands quietly in the corner, watching the slow process.
“Tell me if this becomes uncomfortable.” My bedside manner was always sub par. The child’s mother narrows her eyes at me. I really don’t care. I wrap bandages around his forelegs in order to immobilize them so they can heal. Calcaneal fracture in both front hooves; he is lucky he didn’t crush his trachea against the side of the cart instead of flailing his legs to break the fall.
The colt winces, but remains silent. Good; I don’t want to deal with a whiny child and an overprotective mother. Hardly overprotective, now that I think about it. She didn’t even know when her child walked onto her roof and fell.
I take a moment to look at the mother. Shirt and jacket that haven’t been washed for two days, spider angiomas on her neck, half-healed abscesses on her abdomen, and bloodshot eyes.
Alcoholic.
Trying to be casual, I run a hoof across the colt’s foreleg. He winces slightly, but says nothing. Surreptitiously, I lift his leg under the guise of gaining better leverage to wrap bandages. I feel across his leg once more and discover a minute rise in the bone.
Improperly healed spiral fracture, caused by a limb twisted beyond its ability to bend. No wonder the child is silent; the fight had been beaten out of him.
Poor child. He doesn't know how frail the mortal coil may be.
Pain.
Agony.
Prisons for the soul.
The harsh reality is that reality hates you. Fillies and colts of every age come to me when their bodies are broken. I see the pain in their eyes and bodies, the weight hanging behind the veil of half-smiles and tears. Mothers and daughters, fathers and sons come and go, spill their guts to me in order to create small talk, and leave after I’ve stitched them together.
It’s why I like dealing with those with something to hide. They know... they know the truth. Happiness is as weak and tenuous as the smallest link. Once broken, life comes tumbling apart. A nail can build a house, or end a life. Ponies chittering away about their next social gathering try desperately to hold their life together. A strong house, a happy family, a stable job. This will make you happy. This is what you need. I admire how they can believe they are happy when their lives are so hollow. I love that fire in their heart, only because I know how it will be extinguished like the colt before me.
I wish I could start a fire in my heart. I wish I could feel something. I can’t. I can’t afford to.
Tick Tock goes the clock.
I finish wrapping the bandages and reach for a sealed canister of ointment, a special sap to coat the bandages and harden them into a proper cast. Putting on some gloves, I begin applying the cream and speak to the mother to kill time. “Make sure he stays off these legs for at least three weeks. Should any complications occur such as a sudden onset of pain or damaged cast, come to the hospital as soon as possible.”
“How often do casts break?” she asks.
“Often enough that I like to keep my bases covered and tell you the risks.” I see her nod in my peripheral vision after I finish droning. ‘No doctor, it just happened. Casts break sometimes. All he did was hit a wall in his wheelchair.’
It will save me the effort of talking to the police. The ridiculous amount of excessive force needed to break a cast is obvious to even a novice doctor. Try explaining yourself out of that one, mother dearest.
I smile. The child before me sees and immediately looks down. I must look like his mother after a bottle of whiskey. Everyone hates it when I smile. They say it scares them. Even the mother looks uncomfortable when I look at her.
There are bigger monsters than you, mom. Believe me.
“There you go. Just sit like that for a minute and it will dry.” The faster it dries, the quicker I can leave you two. I look at the clock. Just about –
Tick Tock
Goes the door.
A unicorn in a standard issue labcoat opens the door. “Greetings!” Doctor Helios is always too cheery for my comfort.
The mother and her child force a smile and a thank you. Neither look me in the eye and I drop my smile. I rarely smile. Not smiling is abnormal, but that abnormality is what defines me. I am known for never smiling. Helios speaks a few words to the mother and son before turning upon me as they leave. I wish he would stop smiling. It irritates me.
“So, another fun-filled day, Sirus?”
“As much as clinic duty will allow, doctor.” The effort to respond is almost enough to make me leave the room before he starts chatting. Of all the doctors in Heilengiest, Helios talks more than them all put together. Loquaciousness is not a virtue I cherish, but I want to keep up appearances. A little chatter never hurt anyone, and the sooner I get the conversation over with, the quicker I can leave. “Are you scheduled for clinic duty as well?”
“Bella’s riding my ass harder than a comfort horse.” I don’t know if I want to leave or sever an artery now. “I don’t know what I did to piss off the Dean of Medicine, but she is pissed enough to assign me fifteen hours of clinic this week for sticking up for Heimlich. Just be glad you aren’t on her shit list.”
I want to sigh in irritation. Belladonna, Dean of Medicine, was angry that it took her diagnostic staff three days to isolate the Lupineretrovirus that was spreading in Canterlot. I am not on the diagnostic staff, but rage is blunt and wild, easily lashing at innocents. Even I was on the receiving end of one of her tirades, but I know she would do nothing drastic against me. I am the best surgeon in the hospital and half of Equestria. As much as she knows I won’t use my reputation to threaten her, she does not want to take that chance.
I gather my meager materials, but Helios is not done talking or bothering me. I glare at him as an unspoken sign to leave me alone, but he ignores it. I know he knows I want to be left alone, but that does not stop him. I am about to ask him why before he speaks up. “We’ve got some visitors in the lobby. Press. Baltimare Times. They’re here for your charming face.” I make sure he sees my glare this time, but it does nothing but send him into a giggling fit. I do not know why trivial things make him so delighted.
This time I do sigh. They are no doubt here for an interview. Being remarkably good at my job has the unfortunate consequence of drawing unwanted attention. I hate the limelight. My job pays my bills and grants me access to all the muscle relaxants I need. I do not need anything else. I do not desire fame or notoriety. I do not care about the mental state of my patients.
What is it that makes ponies place so much emphasis on life and leaving something behind after the light leaves their eyes? It is laughable. It is ephemeral and capable of ending in the space of a breath. I am a doctor. I know this. They’ve lived and died at my hooves. Whether it be the progress of disease, injury, or the simple quiet passing of old age, it ends. Grab a pony on the street; and they are completely oblivious to death and its embrace. Equestria as a whole values life to such an overwhelming degree, they have long forgotten what is painted across the other side of the coin.
I did not make any expression at all, but Helios managed to divine the stress raging in my mind. “Listen, I still have another ten minutes before I clock in. I can make them chase their tails just long enough for you to slip out the chariot ambulance dock.”
As the door to the elevator at the other end of the hall opens and we both enter, I cannot help but ponder how he is so capable of divining my thoughts. I am very skilled at remaining calm and keeping my cool. The singular trait among surgeons is the ability to concentrate under pressure, to block out all external stimuli and focus on the job.
Then again, Helios is the only one willing to approach me of his own volition. I do not know what it is about my apathy, droning voice, and disregard for others’ emotional well-being that attracts him. I even told him I was not willing to be his friend, yet he continues to assist and badger me.
“Thanks.”
“Hey, no problem.”
The door opens. He canters left, while I right. The lockers are to the right anyway, so it is easier to drop off my labcoat there instead of hauling it home. The lights flicker and sway the meager shadows. Hielinegiest is rated the best in the nation for its non emergency and non specialist medical care, all thanks to the obsessively compulsive Belladonna. My work place is clean. Clean of spills, contamination, and blood.
Blood...
I freeze.
No one is in the hallway to notice my breath shorten and the hoof go to my tightened chest. I feel my heartbeat increase, the thunder in my veins and the pulsing in my throat with every beat.
Bah-Bum
I feel it in my skull, a delightfully, twistedly simple beat. My mouth waters before it dries to fresh cotton.
Bah-Bum
I can feel it. I can feel it uncoiling its crooked black scapes and stretch its talons. My own little monster has awoken. I feel its desire after such a long rest, the hunger that never dies. That forked tongue tastes the air, hunting.
I open the door, my face a blank mask to hide the monster within. My locker is near the back. The hinges squeak and protest as I unlock it with my key. I stash my lab coat and collect my bag. The door shuts with a resounding clang. The discordant sound echoes in the small room, constantly returning to my ears like a railroad spike.
‘Breathe,’ I tell myself. I am hyperventilating again, desperately fighting the fear and wanton desire raging in my heart. ‘Just breathe.’
I close my eyes and listen carefully for any sound. Nopony else is in the locker room. Good. Nopony should see me in such a state.
I know what is wrong with me. I am sick, but my sickness is on the inside. I can treat it, but never cure it.
“And ponies wonder why I am so good at medicine.”
My steps echo across the immaculate walls and floors to the lobby, but I slow my pace before I reach the large glass windows plastering the front entrance. As much as Helios irritated me, intentionally or unintentionally, he is not a liar. Sure enough, a perky unicorn with the most transparently sleazy smile and a frumpy assistant, each with an ID tag and a notepad, are engaged in a one sided discussion with the doctor. From the distance, I can hear him eagerly discussing past issues of the paper.
I can almost smile, but I take my precious few minutes to backtrack and leave through the emergency door.
The Canterlot upper and upper-middle class flood the streets like ants, all milling about with their work. As long as they ignore me, I do the same. I don’t like dealing with their obsessions with social status and lateral advancements. I tend to overthink these things. I don’t like these ponies, but who am I to judge? A little love and appreciation by one’s peers can make a pony feel better about him or herself. I find it to be selfish pandering, but no harm is done.
I wonder if Helios does the same thing. I cannot understand the stallion’s desire to stay around me. He speaks as if I am an old friend, but I give him nothing more than the required courtesies. My heart is never in it, and I made that fact clear long ago. I am not and will never be his friend, yet he continues to sit next to me in the hospital cafeteria, calls a carriage when it is going to rain, and speaks pleasantly to me no matter what I say. I am baffled. Does he do it to satisfy some deep-seated impulse to please?
My thoughts are jostled by the ponies around me. I walk down the central business district towards my own house. As a skilled surgeon, I can afford more comfortable housing, including a basement. Although well off enough to be among the upper class, I do not desire the housing or the notoriety that comes with such a station. Ponies watch me and whisper as I pass. I’ve heard it all. I am a genius prodigy with unrivaled skill. I am cold and uncaring of others due to an inflated sense of narcissism and self righteousness. I should be ignored because I am trouble.
It is the price of obscurity. The less the public knows about me, the more interested they are. Ambiguity is a breeding ground for curiosity. I see their eyes and disapproving looks. Others hold mild curiosity, while more simply cannot muster the will to care.
I am feeling peckish, despite a brief lunch in the Heilengiest cafeteria. I pick a quaint place with outdoor tables and milling ponies; a public place, and a popular one at that. Despite my aversion of crowds and ponies and general, I know that sometimes the most effective disguise is the one in plain sight. I learned I can hide in a crowd.
The maître d’ takes my order of a simple sandwich and coffee. I am never fond of stimulants, but Helios and a mother trying to conceal a crime does wonders for my stress levels. I need to think, for even though my job hours are complete, the day is far from over. There is still work to be done, but not yet. For now, I pick up a paper carelessly lying in another chair and begin to read.
The headlines offer little in terms of interest for me, not that such a discovery is surprising. I only read the paper to keep up with the times for Belladonna’s social functions. Staff love to gossip and I am required to converse when shanghaied to attend. Princess Celestia had negotiated a billion bit deal with the Griffonic Empire. I lose interest immediately and began reading about a ringmaster touring the countryside with a vast carnival and menagerie of animals. I don’t know what it is about him, be it the eyes full of mirth, the gaudy white suit, or the concept of fun in general, but something about the stallion strikes me the wrong way. Something about his eyes.
It does not concern me much, and I move on. Economic and political ties with the Crystal Empire are going well, but other than the knowledge itself, I do not care about specifics and move on. Unfortunately, little more than grim tales dominate the headlines. A rash of missing Canterlot ponies stumped the police force due to lack of evidence or a motive. Nothing seemed to connect them according to the police report, and they were actively investigating every tip. The other sad tale is of a wealthy business pony who is under arrest for suspicion of murdering his wife. If confirmed, it would be the first confirmed murder in thirty-five years, and judging that they had a bloody knife for a murder weapon, confirmation and conviction seemed likely.
Poor wife. Sometimes life is a little too short.
I fold up the paper, finish my meal, and pay the bill. Until I reach my residence, I have little else to do other than think, so my overburdened mind does little else than wander as my hooves slowly clop and clatter across the cobblestone streets. Once again, I contemplate Helios and his endless well of enthusiasm, something I can never replicate. I can fake smiles and cheer, but why should I when my attempts would be so clearly forced? Is it not the greater sin to force emotion and feelings you do not have on others?
I cannot give the mood the proper respect it deserves. Why not display nothing but my usual apathy, for even though it may not be appropriate, is it not honest? I just do not feel the urge to express it. I tell patients their ills, relieve their concerns, ask them questions, and that’s it. I don’t intend to be unpleasant or pleasant; I am just neutral. Plain, old blank.
Liar... there is one thing lurking in me. I am like a mirror; I only show others what is on the surface and hide what lurks in the deeper depths. I am a mask.
My home, a modest one-story flat, is quickly unlocked with a turn of my key. No furniture graces the living room and nothing but the basic necessities fill the kitchen; it is not as if I receive company in any respect. I deposit my saddlebags next to the door. My hooves make dull thumps as I walk across the hardwood floor towards my room.
Thump thump.
Same old house. Same old city. Same old job.
Thump thump.
It looks like I have about seven hours until sunset. Plenty of time to catch up on some of my books, one of the few pleasant pastimes I partake. I recall a few medical journals and a textbook or two sat on the shelves next to my bed, freshly bought and still unread. Despite my skill as a surgeon, that is no excuse to be out of practice. I need to stay up to date on the medical world.
Thump thump.
I stop. There it is, that evil place. But it’s too early. Not yet. I need to wait. I have to wait. Control the shaking, doctor. Stop breathing so hard. Don’t fall to your knees. Stop crying.
I stand up, balanced on the hidden trapdoor to my basement, wiping away the resulting tears from my momentary loss of control.
“I-I don’t w-w-want to do this a-anymore...” There it is, that one spark of life, that sudden burst of emotion so palpably powerful that it drowns my ocean of apathy within an expanse greater than the distance between stars. Greater than my irritation towards Helios. Greater than idle thoughts of perverse satisfaction towards manipulating abusive parents.
Self loathing.
That monster in me stirs once again, but quickly returns to a fitful slumber as I enter my room. I can feel its eyes on me, around me. It knows what’s coming as much as I do. It can wait. The wait only makes me dread the impending future even more.
My room is the only thing that displays anything of a personal touch. A vase of half wilted flowers sits on the nightstand under the window. Fetching a glass of water from the kitchen, making special care to avoid stepping on the trapdoor, I fill the ceramic container with its precious ambrosia. While the rest of my abode is laid over hardwood floors, my room is covered in soft beige carpet. A sturdy oak bed frame slathered in pillows and blankets is tucked against the wall. Every other nook and cranny of the white walls is covered in large bookshelves, every one packed to the brim full of books, articles, and magazines of various contents.
Picking out my recently purchased materials, I open the window blinds and read. The falling sun is still high above the rooftops, but not high enough to escape the mountain or Canterlot Castle. Battlements and rocky outcroppings claw shadows into the sun. Darkness always comes early to Canterlot, but not absolute darkness. Light bathes the nearby plains in light, even if Canterlot is drenched in shadows. Even when true darkness graces the earth and the moon takes the sun’s place among the heavens, the city is alight with torches and gaslights. Unlike the tyrannical omnipresence of the star, the feeble attempts to illuminate the streets and buildings only deepen the shadows. There is darkness at the end of every light.
I read and read, watching the city around me succumb to the blackness. Even after I take a brief respite to feed myself in the kitchen, my eyes are always on the windows. I watched the light like a hawk. As the shadows rise, so does my monster.
My motions become more mechanical and repetitive as the afternoon progresses. The dull glaze of apathy has completely replaced the flash of previous anguish. The mask of professionalism that I adopt so well with every surgery comes natural now that the anticipation is nearly over. My monster yawns awake, ready to begin. It does not goad me into entering my terrible basement. It knows that I have succumbed to the inevitability, the pulsing wave of hateful desire beating through my chest ever since this morning.
Darkness comes. It is time. I put away my books and the monster rises with me. I don’t know whether the craven desire is its or my own. Either way, the sin coursing through my veins heightens as I take slow, deliberate steps towards my bedroom door. I feel something below my facade of calm, some deeper emotions that thrash and beg me to feel them. I do not. It will only make what is to come that much worse.
My steps are focused, but slow. Even though the inevitability is well known to both of us, that does not mean I wish to hurry and comply with its wishes. Every second I can postpone is a benefit to me. My hoofsteps echo like thunder, their surety as strong as lightning. That little monster in my head paws against my psyche, urging, pushing, shoving, forcing me forward. I can feel a great pressure against my skull, an impulse that is impossible to resist. Without even knowing I am consciously doing it, my magic grasps the knob on the other side of the trapdoor and yanks it open.
Musty air tinged with the burning scent of bleach assaults my nose. I can’t see past the initial wave of darkness. I know that if I step into the dark, there is no turning back. That nauseating hunger throbbing against my skull is still there. My little monster smiles, I can feel it. I can’t fight it, but I can postpone it for as long as I can. I don’t want to let it out. Every cage or obstruction I can conjure only slows it down. It will destroy me if I let it out. The best I can do is guide it, to mitigate the inevitable damage. I think that makes me better than it, but morals can’t stop it.
I still can’t win in the end.
The first step always creeks, but the rest are dead silent. My hoofsteps stab at my heart, accusing me of the horror I had acquiesced to perform for the monster. I had already made that first step into darkness. It is too late for me now.
I flip on the light. Several bottles of generic brand bleach hug the wall next to the door. A surgical table fitted with straps for more violent or unstable patients sits in the middle of the room on the stone floor. To my right is my destination, a counter and shelving unit loaded with medical supplies. I go through the motions, pulling out a pair of syringes and a bottle of muscle relaxant, along with an anaesthetic designed to suppress the central nervous system.
The drawers are opened next. They are filled to the brim with the usual surgical tools cleaned to perfection. Scalpels, forceps, retractors; all lie in neat rows ready to be used.
I approach the far wall, were a quartet of shower heads are screwed right into the wall. A bottle of washable fur dye is on the ground, which I quickly use to turn myself a dark bronze color. There is little left in the bottle, so I dump the rest down the floor drain. I can get another bottle next week.
I am ready. It is time. On the wall is an unremarkable coat, insulated boots, and hat; the night comes with a certain chill, but I need it for another purpose. Donning them both, I ascend the stairs. The monster is ecstatically purring against my skull. The time is close. My legs are shaking. I can feel the weight of the syringes in my coat weighing me down like a mountain on my withers. Night is upon us both. It is time to take to the streets.
Moonbeams arc through the cloudy night. That is good for me; less light means it is harder to be seen. There are some but not many gaslights illuminating the streets. Unlike Manehatten, Canterlot is not a hub of activity. Most ponies, save for the rare middle or lower class, stay in their homes. For the briefest moment, I wish the streets were flush with ponies.
My hoofs clank against the manhole cover down the street. Forty eight steps; I’ve counted them many times. As if the moon wishes to hide itself from what is about to occur on these dark streets, what few specks of light from the heavens vanish. I am alone in the dark, alone with the silence, alone with that thing in my head pressing against my skull, alone with my own misery and pain.
A mutt barks from under a pile of refuse meant for the morning cleaners. I glare at it. It backs away, whimpering slightly. Bigger and more dangerous monsters stalk the night. I hate to think about what I am doing, but there is no other term to describe what I am looking for.
I stick to the shadows and back alleys. I am still in the more affluent part of town, so I have a much lower chance of getting caught. Unless I move to the lower quarter, I will be relatively free from prying eyes. It matters little; I am good at not being seen unless I wish. I have practice.
A pair of ponies, much more wealthy but not members of the top crust judging by the less refined clothing, pass me as I cling to the darkened alley. They are, surprisingly, inebriated. No taverns exist in this part of town. The why matters little to me, and I start trailing them from the adjacent street. They are laughing and talking uproariously, completely oblivious to the knowledge that they are being stalked. That impulse is growing into a craven hunger. Whatever they speak about falls upon deaf ears. I am intent on watching them, observing their body language and movements. Faces flush and speech slurred, a sign of heavy intoxication. Jerky movement; they will not be able to run or call for help as easily as most.
I have never hunted more than one at a time before.
I fall back, watching them from under the brim of my hat. I can hear my pulse in my ears, deafening whatever conversation they currently have. My mind is only focused on them, and observing if they detect the sound of my muffled hoofsteps as I cross the street and begin trailing behind them.
My hoofsteps instinctively match their own, covering up whatever sound of pursuit I may generate. Every little step brings me closer, each perfectly in synch with one of their drunken steps. The pressure in my brain compounds with every step. I get close enough to smell their sweat and the stench of alcohol. It acts as an aphrodisiac to my monster. It is shaking, writhing in my head, commanding that I make the final few steps and complete the deed I had set out to accomplish. With the barest noise, the clasp on my coat button opens and I remove the syringes and brown bottle of muscle relaxant. I fill them both, my gaze intent on the pair as I get a little closer. Just up ahead is an alleyway with a manhole cover. I know most of the underground passages from memory and know how to navigate back to my home.
Oh Celestia, I am going to do it. Each syringe fills with a clear liquid. I prep them both, ejecting the air until a small stream of liquid flies from both. I am going to do it. The monster demands it. My body hungers for it, this bilious, twisted, pusillanimous desire that will never die. This is wrong. I know it is wrong. If there is any love in the world, any true god, any sense of justice, stop me. Please, for the love of god, stop me. I can't stop myself.
Rich clothes... rich clothes... not wealthy, but rich. Money. Lots of money.
Don’t take the wealthy. They will be missed.
That thought makes me hesitant, slows the rehearsed movement of two syringes rising in the air filled with fluid that would begin the process of corrupting my profession, my hated nighttime activities.
The rich will be missed. If they vanish, ponies pay more attention. Money talks, and makes ponies pay attention. I can’t have that. The string of logic makes my monster hesitate just enough, that mad desire for blood ceases its torrential rampage against my mind.
The two make a fuss as I shove my way past them, not seeing as I pocket and cap the syringes. I do not care. My desires have receded, but I do not know for how long. I take that advantage and quicken my pace, hoping dearly I am not struck with the impulse to look around and succumb to my murderous desires. Time. All I bought was time. I dread knowing that it will be for naught. I can’t stop myself for much longer. I have to make a choice tonight.
The streets are empty, barren. I truly do not know if that is good or bad. Good, because nopony will be the object of violence tonight. Bad, because I truly don’t know what I will do if I cannot make a kill tonight. The lights in some apartments look awfully inviting.
Street rat. Vermin. Orphan. Vagrant. Anything. I begin frantically searching the streets, barely suppressing the instinct to emerge from shadows any more than necessary. The pressure in my head returns to full strength. I can’t fight forever. The humming grinds against my brain, degrading what clarity and sanity I may have on this night.
I want it to stop...
One little click is all it takes. My ears perk. The click of a door as it locks, and the small pitter-patter of hooves walking on the cold concrete. Light, airy steps. Less weight to fight back against me.
I remove myself from the alley like a predator going in for the kill. It is a mare closing up shop. It is ten o’clock; a little later than most businesses. Why didn’t matter. Nothing else did. I followed her from the street parallel to her, watching her progress through the glass windows reflecting her image. She is thin, scrawny even. Judging by the stained waitress clothes, she can’t possibly be the owner of any shop or business in this district.
I cross the street in between the light of two gas lamps. My hoofs make the barest whisper of noise. She does not see or hear me, she is happy and oblivious to the hunter trailing her.
Her. It has to be her. She’s barely out of her teens. Earth pony. That’s all I see. Trailing steps; I can’t let her see or hear me until it’s too late.
The stone beneath me is as cold as death and even the lights flicker, condemning me for the violence I am about to commit, the atrocities I am going to put this poor filly through once I spirit her back to my blasted basement.
I can hear her humming to herself as I approach. At the last moment, when she finally approaches an alley, I blitz her. She hears me and turns, startled that she was being followed without noticing. Before she has any chance to protest, my forelegs pin her to the brick masonry. I crush myself against her throat, cutting off any possible cry for help. Every twitch invokes some sinister spell, letting my monster do his deeds. I try to hide in a corner of my mind, desperately wishing it was never meant to be this way.
Her eyes widen as I remove a needle. She grasps at me, trying desperately to thrown me off. She is young, while I am a full grown stallion. The weight advantage is on my side. She manages to connect a hoof with my jaw and the taste of iron floods my throat. If only that was the most that would be spilled tonight.
The needle pierces that sweet spot in her leg. Her resistance weakens immediately, but does not vanish. Strength seeps from her muscles like a sieve and her flailing slowly grinds to a halt.
I drop her body to the ground with a meaty thud. There has to be a sewer grate or manhole nearby. I can take her back to my basement and begin.
The worst thing about this? Disregarding the drugged mare about to be strapped to a table in my basement?
I am smiling again.
Why should Tartarus desire the guilty? Their souls will come to that forsaken place regardless. What it desires is the sins of a pure soul. A corrupted innocent always taste sweeter.
~The Baron
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Story Commentary: LINK
Edited by: Genesis1212, Reader Review
Prereader: Softy8088
