thenightsurgeon

O Lord, help me to be pure, but not yet. - Saint Augustine

It was always in him.

Even with Marni there he was wired differently. Some side-effect of the world they lived in, some wire put in backwards in his brain. He wasn't alone in this but he never took comfort from that.

Sometimes staring at himself in the mirror while his wife slept, staring at his face in puddles while they walked down the street. Curled, poised, claws out, ready, waiting.

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It's worse when she's gone.

Because he doesn't drink (he's not wired that way) He doesn't mourn and the pain coils in his chest and springs.

And dare we say it? His footfalls are eager as he leaves the house, his knife is sure, precise, clean. He is no butcher! He is a surgeon of the highest quality and each cut, each organ returned to his employers is-

Peace.

And it flows out like water from every wound he makes-the tension in his back and shoulders easing.

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Shilo is aware and he wonders.

Wonders How she reacts deep within her mind when he leaves. Wonders what she would think of him if he told her the truth. He has lied and lied again and the tension has built up, the wire has come undone and heaven help him-

He is good at what he does. He likes his job. It's a great stress reliever and if he didn't do it someone else would. Someone not as good as him. And when he comes home and slips off his rubber gloves and looks in on her asleep like an angel-he thinks she is young

He can keep her safe for awhile longer. Oh lord whatever cold and cruel jehovah would create such a place, help to make me pure-

But not yet.

Not. Yet..

Muse: Nathan Wallace (Repo Man)
Fandom: Repo! The Genetic Opera
WordCount: Forthcoming