Why do I keep my mouth closed when I fight?

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Thunder, and the sound of rain on a dirt road. Night has fallen, and the moon doesn't shine.

A lone child, stumbling through the rain, every drop of rain seemingly a blow, every step a mountain. Footprints of blood that are quickly washed away. The child is clothed in a ripped kimono, and holding a sheathed katana.

Raven hair covers the child's eyes, and his olive skin has been scrubbed clean by the rain. Not that the child would notice.

Huh, perhaps thinking of myself from outside would do me good. Though, I should probably keep things personal, so that I do not become unfeeling. Not feeling the warm blood from an open wound would be a tragedy.

Further along this road, a building is clothed in light, and audible sounds of raucous laughter can be clearly heard, even through the sound of the rain. The door opens for a moment, and a drunken customer stumbles to an alley to vomit. Such idiots, robbing themselves of their senses. What is the point of buying something that removes your feeling, and leaves you unable to remember? I have concluded that drunkards are missing an important part of their body that resides within their skull.

Still, I can empathize with those who wish to forget, even for a while. But for me, that is not an option.

If I forgot, then how would I motivate myself? Pain is, perhaps, the best motivation.

As my stumbling steps take me closer to the source of light and heat, I hear the whimpers of the waitress and fearful muttering of the owner. Obviously, there is something wrong. Perhaps I could remedy this.

I suppress the urge to smile, as that would bring my sanity into doubt. People shouldn't enjoy killing others.

But I do.

Having reached the step leading up to the single-story building, I take a pause to gather myself. I have not eaten in a while, and drunken only what water I could find. Over all, I am dead on my feet. It would not take much to push me over the limit, and force me into unconsciousness. This would be troublesome, as then I would be unable to achieve my goal.

I had only just begun. Stepping through the door, I take a quick look around.

The room was square, and the bar stood opposite of the door. Tables were set up a couple feet apart, and were all circular. A few were tipped over, proof of how rowdy the costumers had gotten. Huddling behind the bar was the owner, a portly elder who had probably never hit another man in his life.

In the middle of three rough-looking men was the server, who was trying desperately to keep a polite smile on while the men groped and exploited her. Two men sit in the corner, sitting with their heads close together and talking quietly, trying to ignore the spectacle that was unfolding before them. They looked ashamed that they could do nothing to help the server, but that is just how it is.

The three men carried swords, and this in itself made them superior to the common people. Just offending such men was warrant for death.

My entrance brings all attention to me. When the two see the sword grasped in my left hand, they immediately look away. When the owner sees the sword, even deeper dread shows on his face. The server tries to hold back a sob.

The three, seeing my sword, came to attention. Then, when they guessed my age to be nine, they relaxed. "Ha! A little runt has a sword! Where'd you find that, little man? Did'j pick it up off the ground somewhere?"

The second man claps the speakers back, and pips up. "Com'n, he's just a boy! Don't be too hard on'em."

The third man, not wishing to be left out, comes up with his own retort. "Hey little boy! Wanna have a little duel? I promise to go easy, see?"

Not trusting myself to speak, I wordlessly draw my sword and give a nod. Looking surprised, the third man gets bumped by his friend, and he shakes his head and stands up, a stupid grin painting his face. "Just so ya know, It ain't my fault if I kills ya, yeah?"

My lip slightly trembles, and I have to fight hard not to show my expression. Seeing my trembling lip, the man misunderstands, and thinks I am afraid. "Hey hey, don't be gettin' cold feet now, see? You accepted the dual, so I'mma learn you how ta swing a sword, see?"

I can't help it anymore. A smile breaks out, and I barely keep my lips closed. Anticipation brings sweat to my forehead, and I can barely hold myself back. Seeing my smile, the man looks disturbed. Drat, this is exactly why I kept my face still. I don't want him to be cautious.

Nodding once more, I hold the sword in my right hand with a clenched fist, and take a rigid stance. Holding the sheath as if I don't know what to do with it in my left hand, I make sure to leave as many openings as possible.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

The man smiles as well, and I see that my bait has been taken. His friends are chuckling quietly, and the two men have stopped looking away and are avidly watching us. The owner is looking at us with fear, and even the server is watching from behind the bar where she is safe. My opponent unsheathes his own sword, throwing the sheath to the side, and takes up a wide stance. Holding his sword in both hands, he raises it up over his head in an impressive flourish. Stepping forward, he strikes down and I barely parry. Seeing me lose my balance, he delivers a kick and sends me flying. As I slowly get up, he stops me with a sharp point at my throat.

"haha! You are a complete novice! To think I was sca-cautious of someone like you! Now, give me your sword."

Bowing my head in defeat, I sheath my sword and make as if to offer it to him.

At the moment he turns to his friends to boast, he feels a strange feeling of cold in a line across his chest. Turning back, he sees a still bowed head. The sword is out of it's sheath, however.

I raise my eyes after delivering my slash, and stand up. All at once, the blood comes gushing out of his body, and covers my front with red.

I close my eyes in ecstasy, and enjoy the spurting lifeblood. As he falls backward, I open my eyes, and look at the two in front of me. One has drawn his sword, while the other is pale-faced and stumbling backward.

Leaning down, I drop my sheath and stick my left hand into the dying mans body. Feeling the movement of his organs, I quickly discover his intestines and pull them out. The slurping noise of the squishy tube being yanked from within the mans body causes one of the two in the corner to throw up, and everyone else to blanch in horror.

Stepping forward with a sword grasped in my right, and intestines in my left, I face my second opponent. Yelling in rage, he steps forward and thrusts forward. Swinging the organ in a circle, I wrap it around the blade and pull it from his hand before he can react.

Kicking the sword into the air, I drop the organ and grab the blade. Stepping forward, I cut off both of the mans feet. As he collapses to the floor, I step forward, and stab him in the chest.

Then I stab his kidney, and cut out his stomach, then carve open his lungs, and dissect his rib cage. Even though he died, I plant a sword through his head, splitting his skull.

Then I thrust again. This is what I live for.

Bloody,

Stab

Bloody,

Stab

Justice.

Thunk

Looking down, I see that I got over excited. His skull was split into so many pieces that it looked like a firework, the way the trails of blood left by pieces of skull were shaped. Stepping away from the headless corpse, I spy the first speaker trying to get out the door.

I once again force myself to resist the urge to spill forth from my mouth what I have been holding back.

Reversing my grip on the blade in my left hand, I throw it and jam the door closed. He looks back in horror, and desperately yanks at the sword, trying to pull it out. As he hears my footsteps, he turns around and franticly draws his sword. Leaving bloody footprints, I draw close to him.

He gives a nervous laugh, and says franticly "I-it's okay! I can beat you, I'm the best fighter among the three of us! If that fool could beat you in a fair fight, I can kill you with ease!"

I say nothing, but instead place my feet in a relaxed position, shoulder width apart. My grip on the sword is strong and relaxed, and I quietly rock back and forth on my toes.

He fails to see this, and swings horizontally at me. "Hah! Take this you bas-"

Or, he would have swung horizontally at me, had I not cut his arms off. As blood spurts from his ripped stumps, he stumbles back and falls on his ass. Following him, I stab my sword into his thigh to keep him from running. Having pinned him to the ground, I disassemble his head with my fists.

Standing up, pieces of skull and chunks of dead flesh fall off of my kimono, and I turn my back on the unrecognizable-as-human corpse. My knuckles are torn and dyed red, and the front of my body is a near-uniform shade of crimson.

I take one last look around the room painted with blood, then I fainted from malnutrition.

As darkness closes in, I feel satisfied that I kept it within.

I am very proud that I kept the laughter in. After all, sane people do not laugh while killing people.

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If I didn't, then my enemy wold run. It is much harder to kill someone who is running away.