The night had fully descended by the time I found a small, nondescript tavern on the outskirts of the village. Its flickering sign, barely hanging onto its frame, swung lightly in the breeze.
The place looked as weary as I felt, but it was the only place I'd seen with lights still on. I pulled my hood lower over my face and pushed open the creaky door.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of ale, roasting meat, and smoke from the fireplace in the corner. A few patrons sat scattered around the room, their voices low and murmuring.
No one looked up as I entered, which was just how I preferred it. I made my way to an empty table near the back, where I could keep an eye on the room while still blending into the shadows.
The tavern keeper, a burly man with a scruffy beard and a stained apron, approached me after a few minutes. His eyes flickered briefly to my face before he averted his gaze. "What'll it be?"
"Just something to eat and drink," I replied quietly, keeping my voice as neutral as possible. I didn't want to draw any more attention to myself than necessary.
He grunted and shuffled off, leaving me to my thoughts. The events of the day replayed in my mind the fearful villagers, the panicked whispers, the realization that they recognized me as someone to be feared. It was all too much, too overwhelming.
I had to push it down, had to focus on the task at hand. But the weight of it all sat heavy on my chest, making it hard to breathe.
The tavern keeper returned with a plate of stew and a mug of ale, placing them on the table with a dull thud. I murmured my thanks and dug into the meal, though I had little appetite. The food was bland, but it was warm, and it filled the gnawing emptiness in my stomach.
As I ate, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The atmosphere in the tavern had shifted. The low murmur of voices had quieted, and when I glanced up, I noticed that several patrons were watching me with wary, suspicious eyes. A knot of unease tightened in my gut.
I quickly finished my meal, paid the tavern keeper, and stood to leave. As I turned toward the door, I noticed a group of men near the entrance, their eyes fixed on me. One of them, a tall man with a scar running down the side of his face, stepped forward, blocking my path.
"Leaving so soon?" he asked, his voice laced with an edge of hostility.
I tensed, my senses on high alert. "I have somewhere to be," I replied calmly, trying to sidestep him, but he didn't budge.
"Not so fast," he said, his hand reaching out to grab my arm. "We've heard some interesting things about you, stranger."
But before I could process it, another man came at me, swinging a chair. I ducked and rolled to the side, grabbing the nearest weapon I could find a broken bottle. I slashed at him, catching him across the chest. He stumbled back, clutching the wound, his eyes wide with shock and pain.
The other patrons had backed away, some fleeing the tavern entirely, but a few still stood frozen, watching in horror as I fought off the attackers. They didn't see me as a person just a killer.
And maybe that's all I was.
The fight ended as abruptly as it had started. The men who could still move had either fled or were groaning on the floor, nursing their wounds. The tavern was in shambles, overturned tables and shattered glass littering the floor.
I stood there, panting, covered in blood some mine, most not. The knife was still in my hand, dripping red onto the wooden floorboards. I looked down at the man I had stabbed, his eyes vacant, staring up at the ceiling.
My stomach churned, and I dropped the knife, backing away as if I could distance myself from what I had done. But the blood on my hands was proof enough. There was no escaping this.
I heard the door to the tavern creak open, and I looked up to see a man standing in the doorway, his face pale. He took one look at the scene inside, then turned and ran, shouting for help.
Panic flared inside me. I had to get out of here, had to leave before more people arrived. But my legs felt like they were rooted to the spot, my mind reeling from what I had just done.
It wasn't me, I wanted to scream. It wasn't my choice. But deep down, I knew that wasn't entirely true. The darkness inside me the darkness I had tried so hard to suppress had taken over. And in that moment, I had let it.
I stumbled toward the back door of the tavern, pushing it open and stepping out into the cold night air. The shock of it hit me like a slap, and I took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm raging inside me.
But there was no calming it. The memories, the feelings, everything I had tried to bury came rushing back. The blood, the violence, the thrill of the kill—it was all too familiar, too easy to slip back into.
I had thought I could escape my past, that I could change, but tonight had proven otherwise. No matter how much I wanted to believe I was different, the truth was undeniable.
I was a killer. And that part of me would always be there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to emerge.
I needed to leave this village, needed to find a way to stop this darkness from consuming me entirely. But as I walked away from the tavern, the weight of what I had done pressed down on me like a suffocating blanket.
I had killed again, and this time, there was no one else to blame but myself.