A short story by Mike Cassenti

The following is an excerpt from a short story that I am currently writing
for The Dark Prophet's web page.  There will of course be more to come in the
near future.  I just wanted to get your input on this part of the story.  It
is a rough draft of the opening that I will most likely be using...tell me
what you think.

"These hands will never be clean." -Terminal Sect, "Scar Tissue"

             Anya stood at the front door.  The stainless steel knife pressed
hard against her ribs.  She checked the zipper of her jacket as to make sure
the instrument of revenge was well hidden.  The familiar doorbell chimed as
she pressed the dirty white button.  After a few moments the door opened
Sascha, standing beyond the threshold.  He was dressed sloppily and stank of
rotten beer.
             "What?"  was all he could manage in his sluggish tone.
             "Is my sister here?" Anya smiled, it was purely an act, she felt
nothing, only the vague relief that would come after it was all over.
             Sascha replied with a grunt that tried to pass as "no."
              "I have to give something to her, I'll just leave it on the
table."  her indifference was masked by her forced smile.  She waited for no
reply and slid past the drunk man that was her brother-in-law. The living
room smelled faintly of stale potato chips and old vomit.  The worn couch was
threadbare and badly stained by an unidentifiable green substance.  The
curtains were pulled and it took Anya a few minutes to become adjusted to the
change in light.  She stood in the center of the room glaring at Sascha.
 Anya had worked this out in her mind many times before.  When her sister,
Petra, would show up at her apartment with her niece and nephew, all three of
them bruised from another of Sascha's disciplinings.  She knew that she would
leave this house with blood on her soul.
              "Stop beating them Sascha."  Anya said calmly, she tapped her
left to feign nervousness.
              "I have the right to do whatever the fuck I want.  They have to
learn respect!  None of your business..." Sascha's sentence trailed off as he
popped open another beer and took a long drawl.
              "You don't know what your doing.  Your feeble mind belongs to
the booze, can't you see that?"  Anya yelled.  She was not angry, she could
feel no emotion, it was all part of her facade meant to provoke the drooling
brute.
              "Don't raise your tounge at me girl!"  Sascha slapped her hard
across the face with the back of his hand.  Anya fell to her knees with the
blow.  She slowly lifted her head to face Sacha.  A thin line of blood ran
from her lip.  Their eyes met.  She revealed nothing.  Sascha took a step
back, his fear becomming apparent.
             "You had it comming..."  he clenched and unclenched his fists
nervously.  She slowly unzipped her jacket and slipped her hand around the
cold knife.  Anya withdrew the blade as she returned to her feet. Her lip
continued to bleed.  She sprang.  Sascha's head was still fuzzy, he had no
hope of escaping the weapon.  The blade sank deep into his side, dark blood
welled as she withdrew it.  His face bore fear and shock as he let out let
out an infant-like whine.  Sascha began to sway, but remained on his feet.
 Anya lifted the bloody tool in a hidh arc over her head.  It entered through
his neck on an angle shattereing his collarbone.  Blood ran forth from his
wound.  His eyes fluttered and he fell hard to the flea-infested carpet.
 Anya straddled his body and sat atop his chest, looking him in the eye the
whole time.
              A weak "please" was all he could muster.  Anya began to feel
something as she stared at the pathetic creature beneath her.  It was not
anger, pity, or remorse.  To her it was like reaching orgasim.  She was about
to take his worthless life and it was almost erotic.
              Without a word or change in expression she brought the knife up
over her head.  It came down hard into his chest ending his life.  The blood
left dark spots on her flowered dress.  Anya lifted the knife out of his
butchered bone and muscle with a sickly squishing sound.  She brought the
weapon back down into the dead flesh of Sascha's corpse again and again.  The
sticky red-black blood was everywhere, the dirty grey drapes, the chipped
cofee table, and collecting in a puddle beneath his cooling flesh.
               Anya stood up and walked into the kitchen.  She set the knife
on the counter and opened up one of the cabinets above the sink.  She
retrieved a glass, her bloody fingerprints painting the sides.  She turned on
the faucet and filled the glass.  The cool water spashed against the back of
her throat and granted a brief reprise from the horror that she had created.
 Anya then put down the empty glass  next to the knife and went back into the
living room to view what she had done. She surprised herself with the
reaction.  As she watched the blood drip down the cracked walls, she laughed.



         - Mike Cassenti