The Unnamed Anniversary

The Bad One

CW: Angst, self harm, death, grief, mentions of torture, suicidal thoughts, blood, a little gore.

This one is dark.

His body is too small to contain the monumental fury rushing through his veins. He can feel the way it roils around inside of him pushing against organs, squeezing everything inside a vice of wrath and torment. Like a torrid ocean, his blood thrashes, full of poison and hatred – for himself, for them – it gnaws away at his consciousness, tugging his focus from anything and everything except this.

He wants to split open his skin and purge the putrid concoction out of his system. Bleed himself dry until nothing remains and his heart stills. His fingers tremble with the suppressed urge and if he tries hard enough he can almost feel the hot sticky liquid pooling under his claws as he imagines shredding through tissue and muscle...

Lurching forward, Munk crashes through the brush, claws swiping at anything he can reach. Destruction, his only aim. He wants the world to be as marred, as damaged, as hurt as he is. Curses drip from his lips, snarled into the cooling air like dragon's breath. Obscenities, hateful and bitter cut through the silence, stripping away the serenity of the night.

Overhead, stars pierce the calm, inky night sky, shining down with a soft shimmer. They watch his tirade – overseeing the way he demolishes everything within arms reach – a soft contrast to his churning, uncontainable rage.

He is no longer Munk. His usual affable easy going nature has been slaughtered by the rotten abhorrence burning through him. Tonight, even the beast within is afraid of what this vessel is capable of.

They took her.

And he did fuck all to stop them.

Bending backwards and bowing against the sheer strength of the howl he emits, Munk cries out into the night. His throat rasps and lungs protest with the effort but it does nothing to subdue his resentment.

Standing straight he sniffs the air, scenting it, looking for something to pour all this pent up fury into, something to take it out on, something to rip into ribbons until this all consuming loathing is gone. Human, animal, he doesn't care, he just wants rid of this slithering venom devouring him from the inside.

Breathing deeply, his orange eyes sweep the vicinity but he'd prepared too well. There was nothing here but some old trees and overgrown bushes.

The furious growl that punches out of him shakes the branches overhead and rattles the ground beneath.

"FUCK!"

***

Munk wakes in a ditch dug by his own two hands. Dirt and grime cover his skin, caking over wounds that are now almost fully healed. There's a crimson tint to the earth and it pisses him off because it reminds him that no matter how hard he tries, he cannot rid himself of his past or his future.

Running a hand through his messy hair he glances around. He'd spent the night out in the open air, attacking anything he could find. To his right, the remnants of a young tree hang pathetically from the branches of its neighbor, the tell-tale claw marks gouged out of the trunk, his calling card.

Well good. The fucking thing got in his way and paid the price.

A cold breeze tousels his hair, pulling his gaze from the mangled corpse of the tree towards the clearing around him. There's nothing but forest for miles, he knows this because he'd planned the anniversary meticulously. With a clearer mind, he knew he'd be a danger to everyone so he'd taken precautions.

Grinding his teeth, Munk whines. He's fucking cold and hungry, and facing a long hike home. Not that he's quite ready to go back. The worst was yet to come.