In a dingy bathroom in some random hotel in Miami. The reptile finally had the chance to look at his reflection. Giving himself the time to really soak in his monstrous visage. Jackson Abernu, the man who believed he was human. Examining every scar on his naked body, remembering how he got them and the pain associated with them. The years of conflict caused his scales to discolour or be an inconsistent shade of green.
His jagged and short reptilian snout, reshaped after countless breaks and reattachments, gave him a disturbing face that he struggled to look at. After glancing at his feet, seeing that his three hooked toes latched to the ground like they wanted to root him in place. Jackson groaned in disgust at what he was, even doing his best to avoid seeing his tail swaying from side to side in discomfort. The only thing that reminded him he was human was his blue eyes, yet that couldn’t sedate his self-hatred. The type of pain that made him isolate himself from everyone, as he believed no one could comprehend his emotional struggle to be something he wasn’t.
But Jackson couldn’t ignore himself. As he grabbed the loose scales on his right arm, he gently pulled on the flaking scale to peel them off his arm, removing the old shed. It was an easy peel; the first one was always a breeze to get through, as it came off like a band-aid. Jackson tried to peel off another bit of shedding scales, but it stubbornly refused to come off. He winced as the old shed peeled off parts of his new skin to reveal blue meat underneath and allowed blue blood to drip out from his exposed wound. Once he was done, he would chuck the bits of flesh into the sink with a splat to allow himself a breather.
Shedding was never easy for him, not when his body was scarred to that degree. Every inch of his body was always a roll of the dice, but most of the time, it would always become a painful experience with him covered in bandages. The most uncomfortable and difficult part of his body was his back, but without anyone to assist him, he would have to skip that part of his body.
He wouldn’t let Mark come in to help, either with something so intimate, nor did he trust the assassin to be able to do it correctly. Yet despite the pain and the routine requiring assistance, it made him feel wrong. His shedding scales made him feel less human. More animal than man. He hated himself. Often digging his fingers under his skin with the strong desire to pry the entire thing off him and flay himself, just so he didn’t see those green scales again. Only to remind himself that he couldn’t do that, he needed to be in top shape.
The reptile despised the natural aspect of his bimonthly cycle, which he had no control over. Over the years, he tried to find ways to stop himself from shedding just so he could feel slightly more human. Magic, technology, ancient herbs, anything! Yet he couldn’t find the thing to cure his qualms. As Jackson looked at his reflection, he reminded himself of that impossibility. One could dream of being human, yet that wouldn’t remove the monster before him.
‘Just end it…’
Jackson shook his head, trying to ignore the whispers that flooded his mind. Taking a few breaths to gain some control of his mind. Yet it wouldn’t yield to his demands.
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‘Your claws are good enough; use them to dig out your throat.’
‘No one wanted you to live.’
‘Why bother fighting for your selfish revenge?’
Hearing them, the reptile glanced at his medication near the sink. He could silence them, allowing his mind to be free of the painful noise that despised him. However, he allowed them to speak while he went back to peeling off dead scales. To Jackson, he deserved it. The pain felt through his body as he exposed his raw meat to the air, and the encouragement from his slowly fracturing mind, wishing for his own demise. Deep down, he knew he had lived for too long, fought for too long, and killed for so little. No spring or well could wash away the blood from his hands or the rot from his soul.
Back in his day, when the world wasn’t covered in metal and concrete. There were people in his life who spoke of redemption. Believing that anyone could change for the better if one dedicated their life to doing good, regardless of the evil they had committed. A child’s dream. Jackson tried that. He wanted to stop and become a healer. Yet, for one reason or another, he would take on the role of a butcher again and again. No matter how many times he stopped, no matter how many times he put down that sword. The reptile would always come back to do what he does best. To kill, maim, and instil fear. It was his nature to be the nightmare for humanity’s foes; for he was frighteningly good at it.
However, he started to realise an ugly aspect of himself. It wasn’t about redemption anymore, not for him at least. In truth, could anyone like him be redeemed for the horrors they had committed? Could someone, anyone, wash away the sins of brutality they committed, even in the defence of humanity? Jackson pondered and accepted that the truth was he couldn’t be redeemed. With the number of dead credited to his name, there would come a point where the blood would stain one’s hands. For Jackson, nothing could wash away the evil. No matter how many times he stopped, retired, or turned a new leaf. Blood would always be on his hands, and the world could see its crimson. Regardless if they knew or understood his actions and the reason behind them.
Mark knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Come on, bro, we need to get moving. I hope you put on your best makeup for the occasion.’
Jackson huffed at Mark’s sarcastic remark. But he was right; they needed to get moving. After turning on the tap to wash the blood off the sink, bandaging himself, taking his medication to silence the voices, and putting on a pair of clothes. Jackson walked out of the bathroom to meet Mark outside to begin the final stages of their preparation to get their revenge on the people who wronged them.
