Glancing in the direction the two had went, he knew they couldn't have gotten far. There were no places for them to hide, and besides, he knew all their hideouts and locations by now. No, it was only a matter of time...

Looking down at his clothes and hands, they were stained a bright red, and he turned to the lifeless body at his feet. If he had the chance, he would have liked to give her a proper burial, but this was not the time nor place. Regardless, he didn't feel comfortable leaving her here on the streets like this. If anything, she deserved to rest in peace.

Kneeling down, he lifted her up, and carried her inside the church, placing her in the bed he had once woken up in. How ironic it was he had woken up here, and yet this was where she would sleep, as well as the first and last time they met. He took her hands, and folded them, placing them over her chest. Even in death, she looked so peaceful, as if she had no regrets about dying, and he hated it. Tears pricked at the corner of his eye, and he grit his teeth, wiping them away. No, he couldn't dwell on it now. She was gone, and there was nothing he could do. Nothing but...

Though she had asked him to promise, it was a promise he would never be able to keep. They deserved it, deserved what they had coming to them, but she... she was never supposed to be a part of this, never supposed to get mixed up with all this, but he had been selfish. If only... if only he had left that time...

Filled with regret and remorse, he wrapped his arms around himself, shuddering as he echoed silent sobs. She didn't deserved this at all. This wasn't supposed to happen. She wanted to be a missionary, wanted to travel the world, wanted to save others like him from despair. She had a family, loved ones, and even if estranged, he knew she still cared for them deep down, and yet...

His mind made up, he made his way to the washroom, and shed his bloodied shirt. His hand was still bloody, and he ran a hand through his hair, hating it. Asides from his eyes, it made him look like the misfits and orphans he grew up with, reminded him that no matter what, he was one of THEM, that no matter how hard he tried to put his past behind it, it would always come back to haunt him. Part of him wanted to cut it off, but it would still grow back into that disgusting black colour, reminding him of the shadows, the darkness and how he would never be rid of it.

Glancing down, he noticed a bottle of bleach, and beside it, teal-coloured hair dye. He re-called Catherine had bought it once as a joke, threatening to bleach and dye his hair that bright blue colour if he didn't keep up with his daily passage reading. It was an empty threat though, as she said bleach was bad for his hair, but had commented on how it would have looked nice with his eyes, and had bought him blue clothes to make up for it. Unlike others who found his purple eyes strange and abnormal, she had complimented them, referring to them as amethysts, and how since eyes were considered "the windows to the soul", it meant that inside of him was goodness and pureness. He had only laughed at her at the time, called her crazy, but it had made him feel better she hadn't found him weird.

Pushing the memories aside, he grabbed the bottle of bleach, dug through the cupboard to grab a pair of gloves, and stuck his head under the sink.
Half an hour later, his head was wrapped with a dirty towel, and he was rummaging through a closet, pulling out clothes. She even had his old clothes here, holes patched up and everything. He changed out of his pants also, and pulled on a teal shirt, the sleeves only up to his elbow. He paused, and then, taking a pair of scissors, cut off the right sleeve at the shoulder, exposing his tattoo. He had gotten it when he turned 16, and was meant to be a symbol of rebellion, of strength; independence. But since he met Catherine, he had no need to show it, plus she didn't approve of it, but now...

Slipping a vest on, he pulled off the towel, tossing it on the ground and went to the kitchen, taking one of the kitchen knives stored in one of the cupboards. He had remembered how they used to cook and bake stuff in this kitchen, and though he was terrible at it, she still encouraged him, and ate his food regardless, even when it ended up giving her food poisoning for several days.

He bit his lip hard, blood slowly trickling down his chin, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Rummaging through the cupboard again, he grabbed a pack of matches, and pulled out two large jugs of vegetable oil. With his hands full, he placed them down, filled several large containers full of water, and slung them in a bag over his shoulder as he took everything out. With one last glance at the broken-down church, he closed his eyes and sighed. It was about time to put it all to rest.

Unscrewing the caps of the oil jugs, he tossed a good amount around, making sure to drench the front door, as well as the wall surrounding it. Then he pulled out the box of matches, struck one, and tossed it onto the oil, watching as the flame flickered and grew, licking up the oil, spreading to the dried up wood boards, slowly engulfing the front of the building. He took the containers of water, tossing them over the oil and flame, and watched as it grew and grew.

As the flames blazed and crackled, he tossed the pack of matches as well as containers into the fire, and turned, never looking back. It was a part of his past he had erased, and once he took care of the other half, he would be done. There would be nothing left. Nothing to go back to, nothing to hate, nothing to regret. He had started with nothing, and would leave with nothing.

It hadn't taken long to find them, and he knew they would have gathered the others. Even now, they feared him. How could they not? They had left him for dead, considered he dead, and here he was now, angry, seething, the kitchen knife clenched tightly in his hand. He would be fighting a losing battle, but he didn't care. He would take down as many as he could. He would make them suffer, make them feel the pain they had caused her, make them feel the pain of losing their friends, those they considered their brothers, their kin. He would make them wish they were never born.

They came after him, and he ran, not from fear, and as one came closer, he swung the knife, plunging it deep into his chest, making sure it was deep enough to pierce his heart. Pulling out the knife, he pushed the teen back towards the others and continued to run, leading them, luring them. The shadows that had plagued him his whole childhood would be the ones to aid him in this hellish nightmare. With them, he would exact revenge on them, on those who took the only thing he had left away, the only thing that kept him going after all those years. One after one they fell, and the blood now staining his shirt, he had no idea if it was his or theirs anymore. Both arms bled, and he had cuts on his torso and face, but he barely felt them. Anger and hatred burned deep, and he continued to lure them, letting the screams of their fallen comrade as it was dragged into the darkness terrify them. The curse he had once been plagued with was now a blessing, and now, only the two remained, the ones who had robbed him of his life's joy.

It didn't take long, and a moment later, he was panting heavily, blade dripping of the liquid surrounding him. They deserved what they had coming to them. They had brought this upon themselves. He wanted to make them suffer more, make them watch each other get devoured by the darkness, but he was too mad, too frustrated. Dizzy from blood loss, he dropped to his knees, the knife slipping out of his hands. She wanted him to promise to not hate them? He had always did his best to keep his promises, but this time...

He slumped over, exhausted, and his breathing became slow and ragged. This was a fitting end for him. Growing up as a street rat, he would die as one too. It was foolish of him to think there was any other way.With a sigh, he closed his eyes, the pain slowly ebbing away. If he could have turned back the clock, back before he had met her, would he have been happier? Would it have been better to have died back then, not knowing hope nor happiness? A tear slipped down his cheek.

"I'm sorry. Give me one more chance to protect you. Let me be the one to save you from myself. I'm sorry."