by BKWillis

Blood and gunsmoke. Threats and curses. Would that I knew some
other way to say what I mean, to show what I feel.

There was a time when I was not a wicked person. I was good once.
Fine and noble and admired. But something happened. Something
happened and everything changed. I can almost remember some-
times, but the memory hides from me, afraid to face me, just like all
the others.

Perhaps they are right to avoid me. What do I give them but wrath
and rage, hot words and hot lead? Sometimes I, too, would hide
from me.

I don't remember how I got to be this way. Sometimes, I think of
my father and wonder what he would say, if he could see what his
pride and joy has become. And how would I handle that, hateful
thing that I am? I scare myself to think on it.

Could I not change, I wonder? Would it take so much to start anew?
Can I resurrect from the depths of my heart the gentle words and
warm thoughts that I once was capable of? I could try...

He comes up to me, his face showing cautious worry over my brood-
ing. Whatever spark of light is left in me is touched by his concern.
He who has been the greatest target of my wrath, who has suffered
the greatest torments from my hands, who has been the preferred
victim of my blood-misted rages, is worried about me. Does that
make him a good person or merely stupid? What does that make
me, then?

It occurs to me how much his companionship has meant to me. A
loner by nature even at my best, he is one of the few who has made
the effort to know me. And in spite of all my vocal scorn for his in-
eptitude, the little weasel-boy's acts touch me by their sincerity, if
not results.

Dare I tell him of this? Can I lay bare my feelings and tell him what
his friendship has meant to me? Can my words be other than angry,
my deeds other than bloody? Can I, just this once, be kind and good
again, like I was so long ago?

"Hey, are you okay?" he asks. "You've been staring at that wall for
hours, now--"

"Stow it, boy."

"Hey! I just thought--"

"Leave the thinking for them that are good at it, Shit-for-brains.
You just interrupted my angsting."

"Whoa, whoa! I'm sorry!"

"Not as sorry as I could make you..."

He pales and backs out the door, stammering apologies. As he
closes it behind him, I hear him call out to the others: "Everybody
keep it down! Number One is angsting and doesn't wanna be dis-
turbed..." I sigh deeply and re-holster my revolver.

Could I change for the better? Could I give over my evil ways?

Apparently not.

Oh, well...


Copyright Disclaimers:

Doctor Who is owned by the BBC, not that this fic had much to do with the
show or books. Oh, well...
To Die For original characters are the creation of me, except for whichever
ones aren't.

Archivist's Note:

Characters: No DW regulars
Categories: 'To Die For' series
Synopsis: Musings of a murderous maniac...