I have killed.
I am not afraid to admit it. I am not ashamed of it, either. It is a fact of life for me, nothing more. Like erasing part of a math problem on the screen of the computer. That is as important as the life I took.
Yet, you look at me with eyes that see a monster, not a warrior. You preach your ways of peace, the other road to go down, not being as bad as who we fight against. You see killing as a sin when it is a common thing. Survival of the fittest.
You would not survive in my world.
The comforts and joys of America have made you soft even in the midst of your personal war to unite humans and mutants. For it is a war, not a dream. What dream could twist itself into the minds of young mutants again and again? Not yours.
Your war cry is stronger.
I hate to tell you, but they come for your war not your dream. Does that crush you? Does it snap something inside of your mind, your heart? Or will you brush it off as you have brushed so many things off?
I have killed.
I will not brush that off, not leave it to hang as a trophy to the evils that we are all capable off, to haunt me until my dying day.
I am a warrior. I am a lady.
You don't see that. You look at me and see blood on my hands, see the flash of a stolen soul in my eyes, and hang your head, muttering to yourself that you have failed me when you really think I have failed you.
What is it that makes us different?
I am nobility, one of the last surviving daughters of Nova Roma, secure in the knowledge of my own heart, raised to enjoy the finest things. We are not the barbarians we appear to be sir. No, we are the warriors of a long forgotten era. The ones who endeavor to cleanse our sins with fire and rid ourselves of betrayers by the sword.
You are a son of America, the land of dreams that come to mean nothing. In your mind, there is no goal higher than yours is; no quest is nobler. And you surround yourself with children, to fill their heads with your pretty dream, you teach them to control their powers and then lock them into your own army. Nevertheless, an army that is hesitant to kill is no army at all.
You see the blood on my hands. I see that I have survived. For if I had not looked that man in his eyes and then stabbed my dagger through his heart, who is to say what he would have done to me.
When it was over you gave me the funniest look. I could not tell if you were in awe or if something in your soul was beaming, proud of me. Then your eyes iced over with dread and regret. A mere burglar, you said, as if that made things worse.
My father would have been proud of me. He would have smiled with joy to see me lay aside my fear and take the life of one who meant to hurt me. Not a mere burglar, sir, just as I am not a mere girl.
You will not send me home.
I have killed but I do not wish to be saddled to some man my father picks. You have taught me one thing, sir. I must choose my own road. Unfortunately, your road is not my own.
I have killed, Professor. I will not say I am sorry. However, I will take my bloodied hands and go elsewhere. It is my decision.