.:Psycho:.

Written in 2008 to go along with this picture I drew: http://supercoolninjagrl.deviantart.com/art/Psycho-97607571

WARNING: Rated R for gruesome images and gore

DISCLAIMER: A.J. Courman is a werewolf. She is MY character. If I see anyone using her or another character that resembles her too closely without my permission, I will consider you a thief, hunt you down, and KILL YOU. "Psycho" lyrics are (c) to Puddles of Mudd


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Maybe I'm the one who is the schizophrenic psycho.


I raised my hand to my face, taking in the full image of the beating heart in my hand. It was still amazing to me how the human body could survive for just a short second after its main control was ripped from it. It was also amazing how this muscle, this organ sitting in my palm, was still moving... still pushing blood to the arteries that no longer existed.

Slowly, the beating came to a dead halt and relaxed, the heart becoming a ball of mush in my palm. The blood dripped from the shredded veins and arteries through my fingers to splash onto my legs underneath me.

My eyes, focused on the task at hand, shifted from the heart to the victim who no longer owned it. Such a pretty, young face. His flesh was still pink with color, not yet taking on that look of death. His eyes were closed, thank goodness. I wasn't sure if I could take staring at his eyes.

The only problem with the beautiful picture before me was the gaping hole in his chest. The one that was sputtering blood like some sort of gurgling fountain that had a kink in the pipe. Past the red liquid that stained his white tee shirt, I could see the off-white color of bone. His ribs. I had had to crack a few of them before my hand would fit through the hole to rip out his heart.

I felt a sudden pang of guilt and remorse for the poor, young man, but it was quickly swept away as a new feeling entered my mind. Glee. Excitement. Thrill.


Somewhere, in the back of my suppressed conscience, I knew that such feelings in this situation would be considered monstrous, evil, abominable. I was a killer, a murderer.

That word registered in my mind for a moment as a bad thing, but again, with instincts overriding my brain, it was gone just as quickly.

I knew that once I woke up from this nightmare I would be horrified. I would cry for hours upon hours, re-living this memory again and again. I wouldn't eat for another full month until my disgusting and wretched fate seized me once more. I would suffer. I would hate myself.

I was beginning to become accustomed to this. Nine years of hatred toward myself. Nine years of suffering. It was normal for me.

Even now, as I turned my palm over and let the dead organ slip from my hand, I knew that this was all my fault. This death, among others, were all because of one choice. One small decision I had made when I was a child.

The heart landed with a squishy, wet sound on top of his chest. I raised my hand to my face and smeared his blood down my cheek. This action was not my conscious doing, but that of my master's. He liked to rub it in a bit- as if I weren't suffering enough.

Anubis was only good for one thing. He blocked emotions. I suppose that's how I could be such a cold-hearted killing machine. I never felt remorse, never felt guilt or sadness during the hunt. Those emotions would distract me from my goal. So Anubis took care of that by wiping my mind clean of all thoughts, all emotions, all free will. I was simply an animal. A tool. A machine for him to use. He would give me back my free will when the sun rose and the full moon was hidden by its light. He would give me back my thoughts, my conscience, my emotions.

And then he would sit back with a smile on his face and watch me suffer.

And it would happen all over again the next month.