Sometimes I think about a train smattered with blood.
There’s me, in the centre. Carnage all around, bits of flesh in my hair, blood on my face, entrails on the seats and the bloody handprints of those who tried to escape on the windows.
Not a single survivor.
Or so, at first, it seems.
I think about someone trying to be sneaky, trying to escape. The very person who’s actions awoke the beast in the first place.
I stop them with the snap and crunch of cartilage and bone.
Victims are never spared the gruesomeness of their deaths, they don’t live it in dulled drugged colours, they see everything in the beautiful technicolour of fear.
I am not merciful.