It was a strange feeling, or perhaps an unlikely mixture of different feelings. Whatever the case, Laila imagined that nobody else experienced it.
She often found herself trying to put a description to it, but English words are limited. In some ways it was like a hunger, for there was a yearning, followed by delight and
then satisfaction. It was exhilarating as well...knowing what she was about to do.
But at the same time terror mingled with guilt, and together they screamed over her pleasures. There was no penance deep enough to hold such a sin, much less hundreds.
And there would be more. Many more. It simply could not be helped, for as much as Laila was repulsed by murder, she had to. At least once a week. Otherwise she ran the risk of her hunger screaming louder than her guilt. At those times, she might loose herself and kill an innocent instead of a criminal. It had happened before.
So every week, at least once a week, the government gave her a name of which she hoped belonged to a bad person. And right before she reached out to embrace the felon and whisper his name, she always encountered that intense feeling...that overbearing tug-of-war between desire and conscience.
Laila belongs to me, and is the main character of a new story I'm working on. ( No, she is NOT a vampire. ) This is that feeling, interpreted by brushwork. I think this painting shows the emotion better than my writing ever could...but I need to practice writing anyway (especially if I'm not good enough to do comics.)
India Ink on Bristol Board, as usual.