Apathetic Hands

He didn't want to do it. 

When he slid the blade deep into her temple, feeling the deceptively soft click of it cutting through the skull, it was like his hands weren't his own. When the blood began to pour like a waterfall from the wound, bathing his hands in the physical form of his actions, he knew that he'd be seeing red gloves for years to come. 

Only moments before, she'd said, "I love you."

But after the words were spoken, the feeling of pure, unadulterated love that he expected to rupture from his body never came. Instead, it was as if his entire body had gone completely numb, leaving him a victim held captive in the impenetrable cage of his mind. 

She fell to the ground with a thud, mouth opened wide in a wordless scream, blue lifeless eyes still holding onto the betrayal that would be the last thing she ever felt. 

His knees gave. 

His head throbbed. 

His heart shattered. 

Gripping the sides of her face, he hoped to God this was a nightmare and she'd wake up, maybe even returning the favor and digging her own knife into his gut so that he could be with her even in death. 

Then his wrist flicked without consent, sending an echoing crack throughout the kitchen. Their kitchen. The one they had planned and blueprinted together. The one she had specifically insisted was large enough for her not to be disturbed when their children ran through. Her belly was starting to grow large, had even started complaining about how her clothes no longer fit right so she could justify buying more.

What had he done?

Something that sounded like static shocked his ears, making him look away from his dead wife for the first time. 

"Twelve," a voice called, but there was no one in the room. The sharp sound rang in his head like a thought, making him wonder if it had been his own voice all along. "Your mission is complete, return to base."

Ah. 

The accustomed feeling of real memories replacing fake crowded his head, but by now he'd been through this enough to know to hold himself up with something sturdy. 

When all was right once more, Twelve looked down at the fallen women with something less than sympathy. He removed the scarlet blade from her head, wiping it on the fabric of his pants. Then he left the house, body now moving in the way it was originally programmed to. 

Fierce.

Powerful.

Inhuman.

We're all caught in their strings, our actions aren't all our own.

But sometimes they are, and we just don't have the ability to care.