Mark stirred, his eyes suddenly shooting open, his vision clear and enhanced, trailing the cracks in the ceiling. His mind was puzzled, questioning his being here. When he broke his arm many years ago, he vividly remembered the sight and the smell as the pain seared it into his memory. Bleach and a sterilised environment stuck to his nose, causing him to grimace; the memory is better forgotten.
His pupils flickered, and his body took in the soft velvety comfort of that which he lay in. He blinked as water trailed; they burned and stung as if soap dripped into them constantly. Physically fine, his mind was in recoil, extreme tiredness plaguing him. It eclipsed even the times he did all-nighters, a total of twenty-seven hours, peaceful and happy memories flooding through the gates. Fourteen years old, playing the newest virtual-reality game, supposedly 100% realistic! How naive, he thought with a slight smile. Back when times were simpler, blindly believing in fake marketing, buying the game and making it a success.
Blood-shot and reminiscent eyes blankly stared upwards, trying their damnest to block the horrors of a past event, barely two days now. Sounds rang into his ears, nurses and doctors scrambling around the room, heartbeats raised and blood thumping. They checked equipment, asked him questions and ran off to superiors. Imperatives they had been given; by the highest echelons of society, yet he was numb. A solitary thought, spiralling. One reflection of untold terror, drowning reality out as images flashed through his mind. It gave a sense of freedom, away from all things, like an out-of-body experience with only himself to view.
Bruised and bloody corpses smashed into his head, all of his loved ones repeated, over and over. It wouldn't stop; he couldn't get it to stop. He hated it. They kept coming and coming, his hands clenching and his eyes turning bloodshot. He hated it all. And the Void, the cause of it, he despised with a passion yet unseen on this Earth. Mark's mind reeled, a movie eternally replayed, hands crunching the metal as it bent and twisted. It caved easily, deforming and turning jagged; unseen strength and pressure forced it to conform.
He felt their hands on him, his figure shaking where it lay, panic overtaking the ward. His anger and rage; built and built, like building blocks, until... it fell. Mark felt it coming, a tempest of death. Bloodshot turquoise eyes, once so reminiscent, turned a deep-seated red, heat emanating from it as the air waved from searing warmth. Hoping to contain it, he closed them off as the world turned dark. It scared him, terrified him. But it did not stop. And at that point, he could no longer contain it anymore.
The eyelids burst open with untold magnitude, vision unobstructed as a red beam of pure heat shot out. Under the shocked and awed hospital personnel's gazes, it hit a young nurse, clumsy and pale, a newer employee, perhaps, unwittingly journeyed to her doom. It struck her, boring through her forehead as a drill through dirt and crashing into the wall behind. It crumbled like a house of cards, collapsing inwards as the room rumbled.
His heart raced, eyes wide, but the beam didn't stop, facing the rest of them in blind instinct. They screamed and ran, faces of pure horror, clambering and tripping over one another. But it was no use. They moved in slow-motion, unable to escape the light-speed laser following his pupils. His face mimicked their own, cutting them all into explosions of gore, steaming blood splattered everywhere.
An elderly doctor was cut down the middle, brain matter erupting like a volcano and flung around. Entrails leaked from his gut, his demise almost instantaneous. Mark's gaze followed three nurses, dead within an instant, their heads split in half as they fell.
'STOP!' He mentally screamed.
A gruesome scene met his view, yet it did not stop. He had to make it stop. There was a clear correlation between his anger and the crimson ray. Happy thoughts and pleasant memories swept through his mind; the streak seemingly lessened. Yet, the destruction continued untoward, tearing a bloody and burnt hole through the hospital, emerging from the other side. It did not discriminate: Patients, staff, officials, women and children, old and young. All of them suffered.
The building creaked and groaned, crying out in pain. Mark kept his sight locked on one section, limiting the damage as sparks spat at him and tiles shattered from the ceiling. Then, as if an illusion, it disappeared, leaving only residual heat and desolate remnants of a critical establishment.
Eyes, once so bright and distorting the air with fervour were gone, replaced with dead and dull turquoise irises. They timidly glanced around, shakingly inspecting the damage. The pure and clean white building was blackened by heat, with litres of blood smeared everywhere; in an arbitrary fashion. Mark slowly pushed off the bed, his feet meeting a grim sludge on the floor, his head turning downwards. Glistening gore, guts, and organs were what he saw; his toes accidentally curled around an intestine as he heaved. Faint flickers of fire illuminated the room.
'I... did this?' Mark wondered, perplexed. 'I did this? No...'
Everything was so bloody and devastating, unrivalled carnage he could not comprehend, never mind his fault in it. He had done this. Once so normal, living so ordinary, was plunged into uncertain waters. His heart beat at a dangerous speed; his mind was a race car, struggling to understand. Anxiety crippled him, emerging from the deepest depths as his hands gripped his hair, almost wrenching it from his scalp. He couldn't understand how so much destruction could be wrought by one man, a human... by himself.
Thus, he sat there in steady, silent shock, surrounded by mutilated corpses. A punch in the gut hit unexpectedly, causing him to heave before vomit violently exploded from his mouth. Purple-tinged tears dripped and splashed into the bodies' vitality; Mark left in solitary silence to question himself in a remorseful spiral.
It would not leave him that these people working for the NHS, such a renowned and beloved institution... were dead because of him. A beacon of Britain's once proud and caring nature, now lying dead upon the very floor they worked.
"A tragic accident." He quietly rambled, "Just... just an accident."
'Did they see it that way?' He quaked and sobbed, 'Was it a mishap for them? Or was he... a monster?'
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He muttered, "I'm so, so sorry."
Minutes passed, sirens blaring in the distance and alarms beeping throughout the hallways and rooms. Distant echoes of tearfully screaming women and children reached his eyes, and stomps of fleeing visitors were somehow vividly heard. He covered his ears, yet the noises did not stop. The chaotic mess never disappeared a constant reminder of what he had done, his crimes and guilt. The unknown was the worst of all fears, and Mark felt this most, his circumstances utterly baffling as he drowned in his sorrow.
Then, he heard the uniformed stomping of boots, heavy and powerful. He could even pinpoint their location, their numbers, the absurdity momentarily pulling him from grief. The smell of death forever stained his nostrils with its horrid presence as he heard clicks of guns, roughly fifteen in total.
Down the fall, they came with utmost vigilance, their deep breaths filtered through a gas mask. Mark smelt the sweat inside their suits, muffled but present, as they closed in, forty metres, thirty. It annoyed him, the 'sixth sense' he had, the building never out of mind, a sense always pushing it onto him.
The air moved around them, their steps slow and measured, laboured breaths getting deeper and almost... panicky. He could sense their fear, unknown how, but he could. Maybe it was the thunder of their hearts, of the bubbling of blood rapidly coursing through the body, or blood vessels contracting. Yet, they said nothing, utterly professional.
Mark knew roughly, who they would be - soldiers or armed police. He had killed innumerable people and destroyed a critical service building. He was a murderer. A criminal. A deranged killer. At heart, he was none of those things, but he understood that was what he had become today. Whether by the eyes of the public or himself.
They arrived at the scene, armed soldiers cloaked in black, gun raised and pointed at him. He watched them observe the devastation, the corpses and their state. But, they were desensitized, battle-hardened, their actions not betraying their emotions. They did not flinch; they did not waver, and they did not panic. Their job was simple: investigate what happened and, if necessary, eliminate the threat.
The group expected bodies, ruins and debris. The blood and gore were also predictable, but the boy, a young adult, they narrowed their eyes at. Physically unaffected, yet seemingly distraught, caused them to pause, awaiting the squad leader's decision. The man had served for a long career; he knew the ropes; they trusted him with their lives. And thus, they waited.
The head of the group advanced slightly, his voice stern and strained, rough and with an aggressive Scottish accent.
"Young man... are you ok?"
Mark continued sobbing, staring at the grim floor and unable to force himself to answer.
"Young man, we need to leave." The Scotsman tried to soothe, "I do not understand what happened, but... you need to leave. You are not safe here. People will take you; unethical people. Come quickly, you can grieve later, but right now, it is essential you come with us."
Slowly stepping forward, he approached slightly skittishly. His superiors spoke vaguely that the boy could be 'unique'. But even they likely had no idea that this could happen.
Squatting, eye level with Mark, he mentally grumbled as time ran out. But this strange occurrence, potentially wrought by this young man and with a wrong move, could introduce the Grim Reaper early.
The soldier placed his hand on Mark's shoulder, shaking him slightly.
"Mark." He whispered, "We need to leave, please. For your sake... and for ours."
Finishing, he tried to gently lift him up but was unable. Thinking he wasn't trying enough, he tried harder the second time; his muscles bulged, but Mark was immovable like a mountain.
"I'll... come." Mark uttered softly, afraid to rupture their ears with his voice.
His face was dead, one without drive or goals. He had accepted his fate, good or bad, he deserved it with all the consequences. His crimes warranted a punishment. So, why not let the government decide what happens to him?