I had another dream of a girl being raped. I was there, watching in mute horror. Nothing I could do, just watching her as a middle-aged man tore through her virginity and filled her with his polluted seed. She went through repeated beatings and mental torture until her will was broken to nothing. She had become his sex toy and she was no older than my sister was. I had a gun in my hand but couldn’t raise it to fire. I desperately tried to, pushing every muscle in my body to raise my sidearm and fire round after round into his back but I couldn’t. I was stuck, only able to watch. Then I switched views, seeing things through his eyes, hearing his thoughts, feeling what he felt. It scared me. For the first time in a while I felt true fear and terror as my mind mixed with his. I could feel the pleasure he got from it, torturing and using someone like that. I hated it so much I wanted to kill myself at that moment, every moment, for the entire time I was in his mind.

She was the same one as the girl in my last dream. Brunette, a dancer’s figure, good-sized bust, brown eyes that were normally filled with happiness. I don’t know how I knew but I did know that she was dating someone before and was taking it easy with him, not doing much more than cuddling. He was content with that, not wanting more until she did, one of the few rare guys that I could ever think of who would be willing to do only that for the rest of his life with her. And now I had to watch as a stranger forced himself in her like this. It was one of the most horrible dreams I have ever had. I switched back into his mind again. I could hear his perverse thoughts; it sickened me to no end. Then I was a third person watching. Finally I raised my sidearm up to the back of his head and pulled the trigger: again and again and again.

He was dead with the first shot but I continued until the clip was spent. It was too late though, the damage was done. She would be pregnant now unless she took the pill or had an abortion; neither one being an option for her. I don’t know why but I knew they weren’t. I wanted to be merciful and answer her cries and her begging to meet the same fate as him, a quick shot to the head to end her misery. I couldn’t though I wanted to. Not because I had no ammo left, I had another clip in a compartment on my holster; it was because I didn’t want to kill an innocent. She lost her innocence now though. I couldn’t bear to do it myself though I probably should have. I saw her fate in an instant, just as I looked in her eyes. Her family would disown her and she would raise the child on her own, no father, no job, living in the ghettos of some city in an area that should be destroyed. She took the gun, reloaded it, and shot herself as I cried in the corner of the room. Why…

I woke up in a cold sweat. My mind was racing, I felt for my MK-23 SOCOM. It was in my holster where I had put it before I went to sleep, resting by my side. I shook myself awake and got up, wearing nothing but a simple pair of black BDU pants. I changed into my normal clothes: black leather pants that fit loosely enough to move easily in them, a tight black cotton shirt, black trench coat, black boots, steel toed, and my leather fingerless gloves. I had earned the nickname as the “Black Angel” for obvious reasons; my clothing as well as my heart. It was blackened by hate and loathing. To some I was the Black Angel of Death; to others I was their guardian and savior. My .45 was my sword that I would smite my enemies with, sending out the gods’ wrath, and my hands and soothing voice would be the saving grace that would help my friends. It had started with one, but it would not stop. It would never stop, never end, never finish. Not until they were all dead and buried. And that would never happen. My job would never end. I may have been the only wolf in my pack, but this one wolf was more powerful than any other combined. I will crush them all. I will destroy them all until they are all gone. But they will never be gone, and neither will I…