What Memory Remains

“The Red…oh, that glorious red,” Zenapharr thought dreamily.

The blood was splashed haphazardly like a Jackson Pollock painting, speckled and pooled over the lush green grass. It was the color of anger, revenge, intensity, desire, passion, and to Zenapharr, more than anything, it was the color of beauty. It brought something out of him that was missing, and he was envigorated.

The afternoon chirps of birds, the gentle breeze, and the bright rays of sun only made the scene more ironic…a mere contrast of beauty to a grotesque calamity. A young fourteen year old Zenapharr knelt dramatically, fixated on his blood covered hands. He would look to them in wonder and look back at the body…the chopped up bits of it, anyway. It was pieces of what was once his friend. The memory was so vivid yet everything right before that moment had faded into a sort of fog. Perhaps he’d blacked out…but he could definitely recall the stabbing, the chopping, the artistic way that the blade sliced through the skin and shot out those wonderful streams of crimson.

At the end of it all, he felt shame wash over him. Perhaps because it was his first kill, or it was because he had gotten so much enjoyment out of it. Either way, that day he only knew two things. One, that it would happen again. Two, that no one would ever find out.

“Zenapharr?” Ostrand said again, snapping the captor out of his daze. “You still with us?”

“Yes…ahhh I must have gotten caught up in the moment.”

“Well, I’ll say it again to be sure we’re on the same page, given your delayed reaction. Tell us about the first person you killed and give as much detail as possible.”

“I don’t see why this is important. Why are you so curious?”

“Zenapharr…you must understand. The people of Nostromus are distrusting of NOSRAD right now. They think NOSRAD has bred some serial killer amongst them…and as a representative of NOSRAD I want to show them a different side of you. That there’s more going on in that head of yours than mindlessly killing people. We want them to understand…perhaps even sympathize with your plight.”

“Always the politician, aren’t you?”

“You can see it that way if you’d like. The public wants to see you crucified. I don’t want that. I need them to see you as you really are…a sick man. One who needs help, and we’ve taken you here to provide that care. Keep you from hurting yourself or others again.”

“I can assure you I wouldn’t hurt myself.”

“That’s not the point. Zenapharr, I want the public to see the troubled Hero of Nostromous. The one who took out the garbage, who has slain numerous tyrants and evil-doers in the name of his good continent! Yet, due to his troubled past and sickness, he slipped somewhere along the way.”

“Making me sound like a hero…intriguing.”

“That’s the gist of it, yes! Public opinion has great sway over these kinds of trials, and can help you from getting the death sentence.

“There’s only one problem with that. It’s not the truth, William. And even then, why would you want to help a serial killer from getting what he ‘justly deserves’?”

“Well first off, if you care about the truth so much, why were you killing people over the years in secret? Doesn’t sound like you value the truth as much as you say you do.”

“You’re a brazen man for someone with only paper and a little pen to protect himself.” Zenapharr glowered at William with his intense look, causing William to curve the conversation.

“…but that’s not the main thing here. You were the great research project, Zenapharr! You represent a glorious achievement for NOSRAD, and who knows all the applications that could be achieved! Though it seems to the public you’re a dirty secret, we will paint you out to be the shining star of what can happen when NOSRAD puts its nose to the grindstone!”

“I see…well I can tell you what I remember from my first kill. There are bits and pieces missing, and I suspect I had some sort of a blackout, but I’ll recall as much as I can.”

“There was a drifter that I’d seen around town, and gotten sick of the sight of him. I found out he offered to do deplorable acts with youths for money, and I finally snapped when I ran into him alone one day.” William Ostrand scribbled furiously, seeming excited about getting such information. Zenapharr didn’t want to lie, but he was glad that William was so enthusiastic to believe it. If a lie was what the journalist wanted to hear, he would give it to him.

“If he knew I’d killed a fourteen year old boy,what would the public think?”Zenapharr thought, and silently chuckled.

“So to make sure here, you killed this drifter, this hobo because he disgusted you?”

“He was disgusting, but that’s only circumstantial. It wasn’t the reason I killed him.”

“So why did you do it? What was so different that day than any others that you saw him?”

“I suppose it was opportunity. I was walking through the woods, hunting. Ironically, I found the perfect prey, as it may.”

“So you did it because you could?”

“I suppose you could say that. Do you have a reason for everything you do, Mr. Ostrand/”

“Generally, yes.”

“So not always, then?”

“Not always, but it’s about things that don’t really matter. Like eating fish instead of steak for supper, not about taking someone’s life. That’s entirely different.”

“So you say, William. So you say.”

“Ahh, okay. So…this was the first time you killed someone. How did it feel?”

“Frankly it was….exhlirating.”

“What was exhilarating about it?”

“Well, what I remember the most was the way the blood reflected in the sunlight. It was beautiful. Like a painting of the most beautiful red color you could imagine.”

“Ohh…so the spatter of blood…the mess.”

“I assure it was no mess. It was chaotic but it was more of a…beautiful chaos. A lovely crimson paitning.”

“Okay, I see. So did you ever confide to anyone about this before?”

“No, but I almost did. The idea of lying seemed atrocious, but it was the only sensible thing to do. Over the years, I often thought of it like acting, much like the roles I was taught to play as part of my military training. To be an effective killer I had to appear to be something other than a killer. I had to blend in with everyone else. The only exception to this rule was to feel emotion, which I suppose was both a hinderance and a joy. I traded never having to feel pain with never feeling happiness...except when I killed of course.”

“And when you realized there was this lack of emotion, this emptiness without killing…how did you feel about it?”

“I’ve never been quite sure how to feel about it until as of late.”

“Oh…so something happened then. Something happened that made you want to turn yourself in.”

Zenapharr paused, contemplating what to say. For a moment, William swore he saw a flicker of pain in the killer’s eyes.

“I don’t want to talk about that now. Anything else you want to ask me?”

“Well actually there is. I was wondering if you could tell us more about what really caught our attention…the one incident that you didn’t clean up.”

At this, Zenapharr exhibited an amused smile.

“Surely, you mean the bar in Venicia?”

“Yes. That was quite the mess. How many did you kill?”

“Thirteen. Why?”

“I might ask that same question. You see, the bar in Venicia is different in the way it happened. So there are two kinds of crimes. Cold, premeditated crimes and there are crimes of passion. This seems different than the other murders you’ve been linked to, so I’ve been dying to ask you about this one. Why would you massacre thirteen people like that?”

“I didn’t plan it out at all. People acted, and I reacted. It’s very possible to be enraged enough to kill someone, then feel emotionless about the murder afterwards. By definition I am a highly-functional psychopath. I am not completely devoid of emotion…I’m simply more in control of them. It is true that I don’t empathize with others much. High emotions are generally messy.”

“Wow, it seems you have done some introspection.”

“I have as of late. Certain…events have led me to want to understand this condition of mine better.”

“Such as the one you didn’t want to talk about?”

“Yes. And just so you know I left some people alive in the bar. They can tell you I acted in self defense.”

“That leads me to the next point…reports imply that you will not harm a woman or a child…is this correct?”

“Never intentionally, yes,” Zenapharr seemed uncomfortable for a quick moment, which William noted. “Are you going to allow me to tell you the story or keep berating me with questions?”

“No, please go ahead.”

“Thank you. “

Six Months Ago

In the center of the bustling city of Venicia, a pub known as the Stained Mug was having a moderate flow of patrons. A small group of three beautiful women sat on the far end of the bar, an old man sat in the corner nursing a bottle of gin, and some various groups of strapping young lads occupied the corners laughing at intervals about something or other. The air was light and dreamy, as if there wasn’t a single care in the place. This atmosphere would not hold out for much longer.

The moment Zenapharr stepped through the swinging doors, everything felt different. A heaviness seemed to follow him, a palpable thick aura that permeated the air. His piercing, cat-like eyes darted about the room, as if looking for some unknown enemy. All who looked up to see his entrance were on edge immediately. His blue hair was most prominent as it signified his Elvish descent. (This was something he was taught at NOSRAD since he had no outside social contact.)

His long black duster nearly touched the floor, swaying around him as he gracefully made his way to the center of the bar. Mentally, he rolled his eyes as he noticed the three pair of eyes watching him intently as he sat down and ordered his ale. Something Zenapharr never understood was his uncanny ability to attract women. Despite the fact that there was so much prejudice against elvish blood in the North, women approached him almost everywhere he went. This proved to be bothersome and quite ironic, as Zenapharr had no romantic interest. This night would be no different.

The bartender sardonically held out his hand after plopping a pint down. Zenapharr dropped his coins into the barkeep’s open hand, noting the disgusted look on the barkeeps face. The bartender had already been eyeing his katana, as if expecting he was there to cause trouble. After the initial awkward hush of his entrance, the mood seemed to drift back to its normalcy.

“Hi there, stranger,” he heard the friendly feminine voice beside him.

“Hello,” Zenapharr turned and greeted neutrally, meeting the gaze of a young redhead who had left the comfort of her circle of friends to sit next to him. Objectively, he could see how other men would find her attractive. She had a bright, open face with hair that flowed around her shoulders in curls. He noticed other pleasant features of her appearance, but like all other women, nothing that prompted any kind of longing for him.

“You here to meet someone?”

“None that I’ve planned, but I guess it’s you now.” He said this with a bit of mirth, trying to be polite. He respected the rules of etiquette and thought to at least humor her for a moment. It had been a while since he’d spoken with someone, anyway.

“I guess it is! You know, it’s not every day I get to see an elf, especially one so handsome.”

“I get to see an elf every day. He keeps showing up in my mirror…although I’m not entirely sure about the handsome part.”

“Haha. You’re funny. It looks as though you have a Mark. May I see it?”

“I suppose so.” Zenapharr held up his left hand, showing an intricate pattern of symbols inked into his skin which signified he was a magic user. It was a regulation enforced in the North, to keep watchful eyes over the Magi and discourage them from living up North. She ran her hand over his Mark, which women had done many times before as an excuse to touch him.

Throughout this exchange he couldn’t help but notice the eyes of the bartender burning into him. He thought the flirting ritual men and woman participated in was odd, it seemed a waste of time when they could simply say that they were attracted to each other.

“For a guy who looks so tough, you really have soft skin.”

“So I’ve been told,” he said sarcastically, already tiring of the game.

“So, what’s your name?”

“Zenapharr.”

“Interesting, I like it. My name’s Anastasia. So what brings you here to Venicia? I’ve never seen you around”

“As you won’t again, most likely. I’m in town for business.”

“Interesting. What do you do?”

“I’m an enforcer of sorts.”

“Like an officer or guard?”

“You could say that, yes. Look, you’re kind to speak with me. I’m flattered, really. I just…to be frank, I’ve never had an interest in women.”

“Oh…so you’re…”

“No, not like that. It’s just the whole ‘romance’ thing that people engage in…the kissing, touching...I don’t get it. I’m not like most people.”

“Oh, I see. You seem nice, though. ”

“You obviously don’t know me very well.

“So what, you’re some fruit cake or something?!” The bartender suddenly interrupted, leaning on the bar in their direction.

“I don’t believe it’s any of your business,” Zenapharr said neutrally.

“Why you talking to this guy, anyway? He’s a fairy, ya know,” the bartender said with disgust, stepping closer to them. This was a term Zenapharr heard often, a slang word for those of Elvish blood.

“Yeah, he’s an elf, so what? I don’t understand why people have to act like such a hemophile!” The girl said in Zenapharr’s defense.

“Well of course it’s important. You know how elves are! Look, he’s a mumbler too! He can take that magic business somewhere else! We don’t care for that stuff up here.”

“Do you see me waving a wand over here? Maybe I should pull some patrons out of a magic hat to drink here, because apparently you could use the business.” The young girl next to him laughed at his quip, flustering the barkeep.

“Why don’t you fly out of here on your wings, fairy? I don’t wanna see your face around here again! Coming in here with your stupid hair like some blue hedgehog. We don’t care for your kind.”

“I’m not done with my ale,” Zenapharr stated matter-of-factly, still sipping at his drink.

“I told you to get out! And you can take your redheaded floozy with you!”

“Hey, I was just talking to him!”

“Oh, come on we all know what you were planning on doing. I’ve seen you around here before. You throw yourself at every guy that walks in the door.”

“That’s none of your business! I come here all the time and you’ve never complained once!”

“Well I will if you ally yourself with people like that! He’ll be talking about how our Northern technology is bad for the earth before you know it, All of ’em are tree huggers if you ask me.”

“Hey, what’s going on?” One of Anastasia’s friends approached.

“Your friend here’s siding with the sprite, and he won’t get outta my bar like I asked him to!” He leaned in close to Zenapharr now, trying to get a rise out of him.

“Tread lightly, friend,” Zenapharr said darkly from his mug. The bartender didn’t notice it at the time, but Zenapharr’s eyes had changed from green to a deep crimson.

“Everything okay over there?” A man from a group nearest to them called over. He stood up and brushed his coat back just far enough to reveal his sword. An emblem of the bar was inscribed on his shirt.

“It’s fine! I was just in the process of kicking this blood-menace out! Doesn’t seem to speak the same language as we do! Did your mother teach you English, or did she teach you that gibberish all the Elves speak? You don’t seem to be…”

The bartender never finished.

In the blink of an eye Zenapharr let go of his drink, jumped off the barstool, unsheathed his sword and severed the bartender’s left arm off in one swift movement. Blood immediately began pouring out of his wound, and the barkeep screamed in pain. At first there was no reaction from the two girls near him. Zenapharr wasn’t sure if it was because it all happened so fast, but it seemed as if an entire minute went by before the girls chimed in with their own screams of horror.

“He cut off his arm!” Anastasia screamed, and they backed away from Zenapharr, who stood completely still after his strike, as if he was frozen in time.

“Ahhh! Somebody help me or get this freak…” At this, Zenapharr jumped over the bar and all the bystanders could see was Zenapharr swinging his katana down over and over again, spatters of blood appearing against the wall with each strike. The remaining patrons could only watch in disbelief as he hacked up the bartender for an entire minute. The partrons were thankful they couldn’t see the bartender, but somehow it made it all the more horrifying.

Even more disturbing was how Zenapharr stopped, sheathed his sword, sat back down at his seat ,and calmly went back to drinking his ale as if nothing had happened. The silence in the room was deafening.

“Did you see that? That maniac just hacked him to pieces right in front of us! We need to get a Venician officer over here!” One of the men said, getting close to hysterics.

The swordsman who worked for the tavern spoke up. “No, he might be gone by the time we get one here. We need to stop him now! If he can do that to someone over that, who knows what he’ll do to someone else. Let’s get him now!” Now there was a hefty group of twelve men approaching Zenapharr, armed with various knives, staves, and other weaponry. Right before they got to him, Zenapharr swiveled around in his barstool to face them.

“Can I just finish my damn drink in peace?!” He spoke in frustration as he stepped down.

Right away, some of the mob noticed his fierce, blood-red eyes and the unbridled rage seething within them. Before a single blade was swung, they knew deep down that they were doomed. In mere moments, Zenapharr cut down a quarter of the group, expertly moving and weaving around their feeble attempts to strike. The movements were agile and precise, containing an artistic grace. He paused for a moment, relishing the look of fear in the eyes of the remaining men. Being an elf, he naturaly had an excellent sense of hearing, and it was even more enhanced after his Injection procedure. He could literally hear their hearts racing, and the pounding of it in his ears only fed his urge to kill even more.

In a blur of movement, he grabbed one of the attackers and threw him into three others with uncanny strength, not showing the least bit of exertion.

“Did--did you see that? He just picked him up and threw him like he was a rag doll! I’m leaving this alone” One of the men said, dropping his sword and dashing to a corner of the room with the three women. Taking his time for suspense, Zenapharr walked towards the remaining three patrons, causally impaling the four men who lay on the floor along the way.

After dispatching the three with ease, he approached the last man who was now cowering in the corner. He could see the man was terrified, the three women weeping behind him. This may have moved some people to let him live, but not Zenapharr. With each life he snuffed out, he felt more alive. As if he was fulfilling some sort of purpose…something bigger than himself. He felt…complete.

“P—p—please don’t kill me, “ the man muttered.

“Oh, but that would be so rude to everyone else who I’ve killed. Special treatment and all, Mr….?”

“Moody.”

“Mr. Moody, don’t be sad. This is the first day of the end of your life.”

“And what, you’ll kill those girls too?”

“No need to worry about them, As for you, you could have left sooner, and you didn’t. It is a shame to kill you though…you’re not fighting back and that’s just no fun. Either way, it’ll do.”

“I mean, I’m not just some guy. I’m a father. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Not necessarily…we all have mothers and fathers. Which means that it doesn’t make you any different than anyone else.”

“But why? Why are you doing this? That bartender didn’t do anything to…”

“Oh, quite the contrary! He did everything…now hold still. I’ll make it quick.”

“Please…I’ll…”

Before he could finish, Zenapharr swiped his blade across and through the man’s neck, severing his head from his body. There was something amusing to him about the way heads rolled off their bodies when he decapitated them. Yet, it didn’t give him the same satisfaction that he got from chopping the rude bartender. The women shrieked and coiled into each other even more.

“Dear sister, do not cry, “ Zenapharr reached out and touched one of the girls’ shoulder. A surprisingly soft look came over him “You are safe, you’ve done nothing wrong.” He turned his gaze to Anastasia. “I do apologize for the bartenders’ words towards you. That was quite rude. You’re not a floozy. You’re quite lovely. I’m going to finish my drink now. You can leave now if you’re uncomfortable.” And they did.

In a calm manner, much like before he butchered the bartender, he sat back down to his barstool and finally finished his ale in a pleasant silence…