Origin

I was nine when my past came back to haunt me. I had finally left the ring. Got out as they say. Clawed my way out from under the piles of bodies left in my wake, but I made one fatal mistake; I left my brother behind. When he discovered me, oh so many months later, I found myself barricaded between him and the dumpster behind the Trickster’s bar, his arm pushed against my ribs and his hand around my throat. My fingers clawed at his hand, the bloody scratches doing nothing to stop his hand from squeezing my throat even tighter.

“Hey there little brother. Did you miss me?” he whispered into my ear. His breath stank of tobacco and rum, just like old times.

“No James, I didn’t.” Elbowing his solar plexus to release his grip, it was a quick duck and spin before I had him pinned against the wall, a small knife pressing into his back. His arm was in my small hand, pushed up against his back just enough for him to feel a sting of pain. If it wasn't for the knife, he would have easily escaped.

“You going to kill me little brother?” James chuckled out. A twist of my wrist and that chuckling turned into gasping; he was one word away from having a broken arm.

“Yes. I am.” I drove the dagger into his back, the release of his last breath music to my ears. I waited for the twitching of his now dying limbs to stop before I yanked my knife out. He lay in a heap on the filthy ground, the dumpster doing nothing to stop the flow of blood seeping down the alley. I rubbed his alcohol tainted blood off on his jacket. I couldn’t have any evidence on me. Not yet.

“Sorry not sorry brother. I have a city to destroy.” I sheathed my weapon on my hip before turning and sauntering down the alley. I had finally done it. Turned into the only thing that would keep me alive on the harsh streets of this ill-gotten city, the one thing that would allow me to run it into the ground; a ruthless, bloodthirsty monster.

I took my ruthlessness and used it to slaughter anyone who got in my way, at least, until I met Anarchy. He was another monster of a child, but he had power. He was the leader of a rag-tag group of kids who ran around the city taking out their revenge for all the horrible things done to them. Abuse, abandonment, fight rings; on and on the list went. This city had broken them, had broken me; so we broke it back. Anarchy directed my need for death, towards those who had hurt me and paid to watch me be beat.

My glittering knife was the last thing any of my victim’s saw, their screams the melody that I fell asleep to each night. I was so happy in my hatred, my cynicism of the world and people became so strong it enveloped me. It wasn’t until I met a young boy by the name of Emanuel that I found a name for myself. He was scared, depressed would be a better word for it. The lines on his neck still scabbing over. He had been abandoned but was obviously a fighter.

“Who are you?” he asked. I could only stare at him, blood dripping off my knife from the man I'd just slaughtered. No one had ever asked for my name. I was simply a machine; a ghost with a need for vengeance.

“I am Cynical,” I replied. “The most feared monster of this city.”