My fists pounded mercilessly against the imposter underneath me; his face was barely recognizable after I was done with him. Bruised, battered, and half-conscious, he lay on the ground as I stood over him, my chest heaving with the exertion.
Who could even think that my time as a delinquent in high school proved to serve me well even in death, allowing me to pummel the embodiment of death itself?
Stepping back, I surveyed the aftermath of my assault. The imposter's left eye was swollen shut, his lips were split and bloody, and his entire face was black and blue.
"Fuck!" I swore under my breath. "I lost control of myself."
As I prepared to wipe the crimson stain off my knuckles, I gasped as I realized that the blood that had coated my hands was completely gone.
