"The Other Side" Chapter 7- The Kill.

What the fuck am I?

That's what echoed in Dylan's head as he stood there waiting for Fluttershy to finish preparing the bath. He could smell a sweet aroma coming from the bathroom. It was like a cool spring breeze; refreshing, chilling and subtle at the same time. He brushed his fingers along the skin of his chest. It felt grimy, dirty and it was caked with blood in some places. His bandages were dirty as well. The cloth was stained red, and the grime from his skin had rubbed onto it. Falling into a forest, passing out on the ground, working for hours and fighting a griffon in the same day tend to make someone dirty. He felt dirty as well; What he had done last night still haunted him, as did a strange feeling lurking in the back of his mind. The feeling was like a dull hum of energy, giving him strange feelings and urges which he could not explain. He felt it was as if he wanted to do something, but he didn't, if that made any sense. He couldn't explain most of the feelings, but he knew he had wanted to kick that rabbit clean through the kitchen window. He probably would have shouted "It's good!" As much as he didn't like being bullied, he hated bullies more. He wasn't about to become what he hated.

He walked to a small table with various small objects. One of these was a framed picture. He picked it up and looked closer at the photograph. He now wondered whether ponies had cameras. The photograph was of a small yellow pegasus and a red earth pony stallion. They appeared to be playing together on a hill. He knew that the pegasus was Fluttershy, and assumed the stallion must've been her father. They were both smiling contentedly, their faces open with cheerful laughter. Dylan put the picture back down, a single tear forming in the corner of his eye.

Both dead. Mine are both dead. I'm... I...

He couldn't seem to organize his thoughts, and they seemed to congregate in a jumble of wild emotion and vague memories. He held his face in his hands, shaking noiselessly. His nails dug into his scalp, sending needles of pain racing through his nervous system. He didn't care. The physical pain was nothing compared to the mental, the emotional, the spiritual. He felt as if he would fall to his knees there on the floor and weep. He wanted to, but he couldn't. He had to be strong, if not for himself, then for her. When everyone else had abandoned him, left him, ignored him, she had cared for him.

She didn't even know me. She didn't know what I... what I had done... what I had become. She helped me without knowing. And you... YOU... You would sit there and cry? NO. I will stand. I will not give up. He gave up. He hurt his own family... his own wife... I will not be weak like him. I will be strong. Strong... for her.

His thoughts were put to rest for the moment when Fluttershy returned to the main room. A cloud of mist followed her from the bathroom, floating lazily through the air. It was relaxing, and the feeling of cool moisture on his skin started to relax his tense, aching muscles.

"The bath is ready."

Fluttershy looked at Dylan, whose face was still determined and full of passion. His mental conversation with himself had been strongly felt, and it left him looking grimly set on accomplishing some unknown goal. Dylan tended to look like that quite a lot, as he was not at all adept at hiding his feelings. He would rather let them come flooding out than bottle them up inside.

"Are... you okay? You look worried." this shook Dylan rudely back into the present moment.

"I'm fine. Thank you for doing all of this. So far, I still owe you one."

"What?"

"Remember? I saved you from the manticore, then you brought me back to your home, and now you've saved me again. That's two for you and one for me, if I'm not mistaken."

"Oh! You don't... need to repay me, it's not a problem... I mean... Unless you want to, that is. Now, you need to go have that bath. You're filthy!"

Dylan smiled at that, shaking his head from side to side.

"You're just saying that." He winked jokingly, then shrugged his shoulders. "That's just me, babe." the last word was chuckled. He rolled his eyes in mock embarrassment.

Fluttershy just blushed.

"Um... O-okay... babe."

She tried to force a friendly smile, but it was hard. She was embarrassed, and she knew it. Her wings shot out, rigid and stiff with excitement.

"Uh... what's with the wings? Something wrong?"

Dylan looked puzzled. He was now running a hand through his beard, the scratching noises caused by this made it evident that Dylan was completely in need of a wash.

"N-no! I mean... um... everything's normal! Yeah!"

Fluttershy was trying to hide her face now, which was as red as a beet.

How the fuck can ponies blush through fur, anyways? Once again, screw logic.

Dylan though that as he stepped closer to Fluttershy, reaching out a hand.

"Naw, somethin's up."

He brushed his hand gently along one of Fluttershy's wings, careful not to hurt her. The feathers felt like silk, presenting almost no resistance to Dylan's touch. They were possibly the softest things he had ever touched. The limbs that supported the feathers, however, were taut and rigid, stuck in place.

"Wow... they're really soft... and hard. Uh, you okay?"

Fluttershy recoiled, trying to suppress a sigh of contentment.

"Aah! Don't touch them!"

"Gah! Did I hurt you?"

Fluttershy looked even more flustered, and she had crossed her back legs. She jumped back slightly, trying to avoid Dylan's touch.

"N-no! No. T-they're... sensitive..."

Dylan looked puzzled, one of his thick eyebrows raising in curiosity.

"Sensitive? How sensitive, and... sensitive in what way?"

Fluttershy's face now looked as if it was on fire.

"U-uh... um... V-very s-s-sensitive... in w-wh-"

Her sentence stopped when she realized the look on Dylan's face. It was of embarrassment, disbelief and a quiet satisfaction.

"They're not... oh... shit... I... didn't mean to... uh... fuck... uh...Wow. I um, hope that uh... damn it... sorry, sorry, sorry! I have to have that bath now!"

He had his hands over his crotch again, and for good reason. Sufficed to say- although unintentionally on Dylan's part - Fluttershy's wings weren't the only thing becoming more rigid. He sprinted for the bathroom and slammed the door shut as soon as he was inside. Fluttershy was too stunned to speak, her jaws wide enough to -unbelievably- fit a basketball between them. She stared at the bathroom door for a minute, then ran upstairs to her bedroom, her hooves clicking on the wood floor.

Dylan's mind was again almost unintelligible.

Oh shit... shitshitshitshitshit. I just touched... what the fuck?! She just took me in, and now... damn! You're blowing it Dylan.

Another voice in his mind spoke up.

You're going to lose her.

Dylan's face twisted in anger.

No. No I'm not. She saved my life. She cares about me. She wouldn't just kick me out for that!

The voice spoke again. Yes, she would. You've been rejected and shunned so many times before for so, so, so much less. Be careful.

Dylan snarled at himself, honestly believing these thoughts were his own. He was disgusted, at the memories of lost friends, and at the same time, his own thoughts.

No. She wouldn't. She... wouldn't do that.

Dylan tried to quell his dissenting thoughts, to block out the nagging sense of undeserved guilt that was gnawing on his brain like a blood-drenched steak. He walked slowly over to the bathtub, looking at its hot, steamy waters. It was made of wood, with iron bracings securing it together. He stepped over the rim, gingerly placing his foot to the water's surface. It was hot, but comfortably so. He sighed with pleasure, placing his leg fully into the water. He lifted his other leg up and over the side of the tub, placing it in the water as well. He clutched the edge of the tub as he lowered himself slowly into the bath, moaning softly as he felt the warmness spread throughout his body. He let his arms hang from the sides of the bathtub, as if he was too tired to hold them up. He squinted sharply as he felt a stinging pain in his arm. He had cut himself on a splinter, and blood was trickling out of the cut flesh. He stared at the small red droplet intently. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as he remembered something. Something with blood. He remembered everything about how he had killed Gilda.

*

His thoughts were transported to an open plain. It was night, and the moon was bright overhead. He could hear the sound of wind sweeping across the grasslands, their blades of green swaying and rippling like ocean waves in the moonlight. The sound of crickets chirping ceaselessly bombarded his ears. He could see where the grass had been trampled by something large.

Gilda.

He heard the sound of his own breathing, rapid and excited, like the breathing of a predator stalking its prey. He felt the crunching and the bending of the stalks under his feet as he ran. His legs and arms pumped energetically, propelling himself ever closer to his target.

He knew she had to die. He didn't just know it, he felt it. With every fibre of his being he wanted her dead. He wanted to smash her into a hundred broken pieces. He knew he would kill her no matter what she said, no matter how she pleaded. She had done the stupidest thing in her entire life: She had hurt those who Dylan loved. She would regret the day she was born. She would know how she had failed, how she had made the worst decision of her life. He would make sure that she knew. He would write out the message in her blood. He would kill her. Nothing would stop him. If the Devil himself had stood in his way, he felt as if he would kill him too. It was a powerful feeling. It was just as strong as how he felt when his mother had died. He would have fought God himself for the right to his vengeance, such was the power of the rage he felt inside.

The smell of blood and fear crept into Dylan's nostrils. He knew he was getting close. He didn't know how he could smell what he did, but it didn't matter, he only cared about one thing: Gilda's death. He crept up silently along the side of a small hill, his body low to the ground. He was hunched over, his head lower than his shoulders, his feet wide behind him. He knew the griffon was stronger, faster, could fly, and knew the land better than him. But he was smarter, more determined, the better fighter, and full of burning rage. He didn't have the slightest fear in his mind that he would die. He could feel the pure rightness of the power surging through his soul.

He looked eagerly over the top of the hill, searching the dark for his enemy with bloodshot eyes. He saw her in the moonlight, her white feathers strikingly alien when compared to the green and brown of the landscape. Dylan's black clothing blended his shape with the dark, unlike Gilda's feathers. She was limping, walking on three legs, similar to how a wounded dog walks. Her fur and her pinioned were both soaked in blood; mostly Dylan's. Gilda looked angry, and he could tell she was thinking about him. He smiled darkly. It was more a look of pure unadulterated malice than one of amusement or happiness. His teeth shone in the dark, their pearl-like faces sparkling in the moon's beautiful light. His deep ocean-blue eyes were pointed straight at the wounded Gilda, full of ire and vengeance. They were half-closed in a killing stare, as if the eyes themselves could destroy their target just by staring hard enough.

His muscles flexed and tightened as he stood up from his crouch and walked confidently towards Gilda, his hands curling into claws. He shrugged his shoulders, rolling his arms forward with murderous expectation. He could almost taste the blood in the air. It was sweet like wine. Its scent only drove him further into his desire for brutal violence. His footsteps were heard by Gilda, who turned and stared in shock. She spoke, but it would make no difference to her survival. He listened, but only with a passing interest; he knew what he was there to do. He tossed his clothes to the ground carelessly, which made a slight rustling noise as they touched the grass.

His mind filled to the brim with four words. Four words that burned with the surest certainty and the greatest belief that he could muster. Four words which would chill his prey to her very soul, black as it was. "I CHANGED MY MIND."

His body exploded with pain as he felt it change. He felt his bones grow and twist, his muscles harden and writhe, his blood boil. Most importantly, he felt the fire. He felt the rage physically manifesting itself into the world. He knew he wasn't human, not any more.

He leaped through the air with his bladelike claws splayed out before him. Gilda's scream was met with sharpened points, which dug into her sides like hooked knives. She tried desperately to claw at Dylan, but he slammed an elbow into the side of her skull, snarling like the animal he appeared to be. She writhed in pain, her wails of agony only strengthening Dylan's desire for her demise. He slashed with a clawed hand at her face. The wickedly edged blades ripped jagged holes in the feathered flesh of Gilda's cheek. One of the claws dragged across her beak with a screech, leaving a deep scar. He swung his other claw for her injured leg. He wanted this to last. The crack of shattering bone followed the strike, echoing in Gilda's ears like a gunshot.

The bone jutted out of her skin, covered in her blood and pieces of flesh. She was in so much pain that her scream seemed more like a groan, ragged and unbearable. She scratched him across the face, cutting thin marks into his fiery canine head. He bled, but it was not like blood. It would have looked like napalm, had a human described it. His blood was on fire, burning viciously hot as it splattered on Gilda. It burned her. It burned so hotly that she could hear the fizzling, popping noise of her flesh cooking. He swung his fists wildly at Gilda, furious at the new wounds she had given him. They slammed into her with the strength of several men, cracking bones and bruising muscles. He battered her mercilessly, beating her to the ground under a tirade of blows. The feelings of impact in his hands made his smile widen, the sheer visceral physicality of the fight filling him with savage glee.
Gilda whimpered and squealed with each blow, trying desperately to escape.

As he watched Gilda try to crawl away pathetically, he laughed. It sounded like it came from a pit, full of darkness and hate. He stomped on both of her hind legs with bone-crushing force. They snapped like twigs. She screamed again, the desperate cry piercing the night air like a knife. She was twitching and trying to reach with her one good arm, continuing to try and pull herself forward. Dylan's canine form bent low to breathe on Gilda's neck, sparks and flames licking at her flesh gleefully as they poured from his open jaws. He snapped his teeth down on her uninjured arm, twisting and shaking his head back and forth. He could feel her meat rip between his teeth, and he could taste the succulence of her body on his tongue. She continued to wail as he picked her up by her waist with both hands, looking into her eyes. The terror in her eyes was complete, the unimaginable horror staring into her very soul shattering her mind like glass. He chomped down on her shoulder and pulled, tearing off chunks of muscle and skin and tendon with rabid enthusiasm. She sprayed blood all over the ground, the demonic hellhound biting her flesh like an oversized, living steak. He worried and rent the griffon's flesh with little resistance, as it was hard to fight back with four wrecked limbs.

She bit Dylan's neck, her beak slicing awkwardly into his throat. He roared with bloodthirsty rage as more burning blood covered Gilda and the already soaked ground. The grass was burning fiercely, the sickly smoke rising from it disappearing into the night. He threw her to the ground and braced both of his feet on her shoulders. He bent low and bit furiously at her chest, trying to rip the skin off of her ribs. She screamed, but it was so strangled that it could be barely recognized as her voice. He looked up at her face again and grinned. He placed both of his hands under her head, their fingers cradling it in a iron-like embrace. She stared at him in disbelief. The stare didn't stop when he pulled, roaring a cry of fury so powerful that it echoed across the plains. She heard and felt the vertebrae in her neck pop and crack. Her were nerves on fire, sending unimaginable pain shooting through her mind like a bolt of lightning. He continued to pull, snarling and howling like a mad dog. She didn't feel anything anymore... not in this world, at least. He knew she would burn, writhe in the fires of hell itself. Gilda stopped moving suddenly. It was unmistakably clear why. The splattering, ripping noise coming from between Dylan's hands was like a beautiful song to him. Gilda's head was literally ripped loose from her shoulders, with arteries, tendons and all still attached to her head. Blood literally sprayed like a fountain from her open neck, drowning the ground in red. Her spine was ripped with her head, the nerves still jutting from the vertebrae. The whole of it was thick and coated with blood, and Dylan licked at it with a burning tongue. He raised Gilda's desecrated head above his own, howling with the righteous, perfect fire of vengeance burning in his heart. He bent back down and feasted, ripping Gilda's body to shreds. His howls continued until he was finished.

*

Dylan blinked, the memories he had just experienced had made him perfectly still. He looked down at the water of the bath, again seeing his reflection. It was ablaze, and it's canine head was smiling insanely. He looked back up, closed his eyes, and leaned back.
He let the waters relax him, if he could even feel relaxed after what he had just recalled.

AUTHOR'S NOTE
Gory enough for ya?
;3

Some of you wanted this, and now you have it. Gilda's death in its bloody glory. Simply to say: If you hurt Dylan's friends, you're dead.

And Metall Kant, Tanning will be introduced, don't you worry.