Work Text:
Something happened.
At one point, he was a soft plush, but now he felt like a figure in stone. His heart was beating wildly, his hands were clenched, and his nails were digging into his palms. His head was pounding, his stomach was knotted, and he felt glued to the ground.
The man in front of him was choking on his own blood. His eyes filled with fear and pain.
Richard didn’t know how he did it. One moment, that man’s hands were on his body. The next moment, Richard summoned a blade and rammed it through his body.
He was 11 when this started. Now he was 19.
8 years.
8 years.
E i g h t y e a r s
And it was eight years too long. Too long to be confined to a tiny cell, and never see the sun again.
One blade to the stomach wasn’t enough for that man to pay for his dirty deeds.
Before Richard could process anything going through his head, he felt himself hacking the man to pieces. He couldn’t even the man scream and beg for mercy. He was on autopilot, the only thing he could do was stab.
This man won’t hurt him anymore, him or anyone else.
Now Richard was limp, staring in horror at the pile of guts, blood, flesh, and bones. That pile was once a person and no doubt was Richard drenched in this blood. He couldn’t bother to glance at his clothes, he already knew that they had taken on a shade of crimson red.
He could barely hear the shouts of the soldiers as they burst into the room, their guns and tranquilizers drawn.
Feeling very empty, Richard turned to face them. They ordered him to the ground, hands where they could see them.
He faintly recalled his father, commenting about his mother, something about her always choosing violence rather than talking things out.
Summoning his blade, he wondered if his father could talk his way out of this.