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SUBJECT FOUR HAD taken a life before. The way the trigger felt beneath his calloused fingertips, the way the weapon vibrated at the pull of the trigger and tingled in his palm, and the momentary rush of remorse after pulling the trigger - none of it was new. He wasn't sure what he intended to do with the gun he took from one of the dead bodies in the lab, but actually firing it and ending a life once more brought back too many haunting feelings for him to handle.
But had the lives already ended? Did he just put both of the dead ones out of their misery? Did he murder them, or simply abolish their ghosts? Too many troubling questions, too little answers to alleviate the burden.
The bathroom door almost slammed close behind the frantic subject. Even if it did, he knew everyone else in the house would've been too caught up in recent events to notice.
The moment he heard the door close, he ran a trembling hand down his face, letting out a deep sigh. He just couldn't get it out of his head, the way she looked at him after he pulled the trigger and watched the bullet land in the head of her reanimated son. It wasn't his fault her child came back to life and tried to bite into her neck; he just wanted to look out for her, protect her. It seemed like it was the right thing to do, but her glare made him think otherwise.
His eyelids slid shut. Both hands on the sink before him, his head hanging down, he fought to evict the thoughts plaguing his troubled head. It could've been hours that he had stood there and he wouldn't have even known; there was no passage of time in his own little world. Just right here, right now. And usually, that was fine, except that right here and right now wasn't the greatest of times.
With a small huff, his eyes opened, and all he was met with was his own reflection staring back at him. His eyes were usually blank and didn't hint at any sort of emotion, but this time... This time what he saw in his own eyes scared him.
Fear, but not only fear. Of course, he was terrified of more than just himself, but he had also never felt more alive. It was fear accompanied by adrenaline and desire. Recognising those emotions only scared him further, but he simply wanted more. The pounding in his chest, the nervous beads of sweat sliding down his forehead, the quaking of his hands - they only reminded him that he was alive.
And with that in mind, he exited the bathroom.
Somehow the house managed to be both quiet and loud at the same time. There wasn't a lot to hear, except for shoes against hardwood floors, distant mumbles, and faint sniffles from the grieving mother; but it wasn't just about what one could hear. The house was loud. A wave of sorrow washed over the home and submerged it in deafening silence, secondhand sadness thundering throughout the house. Four swore that if death had a sound, this would be it.
