Mello heard the threats, but didn't process them. What he did process was the sucking sound from the wound in the boy's chest and the gurgle in his voice, and for a brief second the words and images from a memorized medical textbook flashed through his mind, something not seen for over a decade. Pneumothorax. Hemoptysis. There were dozens of ways to suffocate.
He knew enough about medicine to know that Artemis was dying, so he pushed himself off of the smaller body. Killing someone with a knife was different from what he was used to and he found that his hands were slick and dark, the fabric of his coat spattered with stains. He leaned back on his hands, one closed and still gripping the knife, and he stared at the redness bubbling from Artemis' chest like boiling water.
Mello felt no remorse over the murder, but that was no surprise. It certainly hadn't been the first. He felt no pleasure either, though it was clearly a victory over an adversary. What he did feel was dull dissatisfaction, and the sense of being very, very far away. This felt like a movie. Or a novel. Or a comic book.
After the afternoon's revelations he'd expected some kind of catharsis, but he should have known that this killing was no different from another. He had control over Artemis' life, but that didn't mean he had control over his own.
A defensive reflex snapped his thoughts to the pragmatic and he shook his head violently. Leaving the body here would be fine. The nurses would remove it in the morning. As for the rest of the night, he had ways to keep himself occupied. Scavenging, stealing, sabotaging. The usual. He didn't mind working alone.
The boy on the floor was still gasping for air when Mello pushed himself to his feet, muscles tight with adrenaline. He thought he saw a flicker of blue light within Artemis' chest, but he dismissed it as reflections of the dropped flashlight. He wiped his hands on his pants and snatched up the light, then took a few steps towards the door.
no subject
He knew enough about medicine to know that Artemis was dying, so he pushed himself off of the smaller body. Killing someone with a knife was different from what he was used to and he found that his hands were slick and dark, the fabric of his coat spattered with stains. He leaned back on his hands, one closed and still gripping the knife, and he stared at the redness bubbling from Artemis' chest like boiling water.
Mello felt no remorse over the murder, but that was no surprise. It certainly hadn't been the first. He felt no pleasure either, though it was clearly a victory over an adversary. What he did feel was dull dissatisfaction, and the sense of being very, very far away. This felt like a movie. Or a novel. Or a comic book.
After the afternoon's revelations he'd expected some kind of catharsis, but he should have known that this killing was no different from another. He had control over Artemis' life, but that didn't mean he had control over his own.
A defensive reflex snapped his thoughts to the pragmatic and he shook his head violently. Leaving the body here would be fine. The nurses would remove it in the morning. As for the rest of the night, he had ways to keep himself occupied. Scavenging, stealing, sabotaging. The usual. He didn't mind working alone.
The boy on the floor was still gasping for air when Mello pushed himself to his feet, muscles tight with adrenaline. He thought he saw a flicker of blue light within Artemis' chest, but he dismissed it as reflections of the dropped flashlight. He wiped his hands on his pants and snatched up the light, then took a few steps towards the door.
No reason to stick around.