[ WP ] A villian who thinks he 's a hero realizes he 's the villian . What is he thinking ?

He stopped, knife wielded high above her. 
 
 How had he been so wrong? His entire mission boiled down to this: murder. The murder of people perfectly pure in most regards. Fireworks of crimson and the daubs of fresh yellow fat oozing and sliding from his dagger when he was done. It was beautiful. But the things most beautiful are often the things most blithe. 
 
 An illustrious career dedicated to plunging and wielding and that sweet, sweet crimson flashed quickly through his mind. A scarlet once so bright and righteous was dull and bitter, now. The vermillion streams he had started in streets and bars and cafés ran muddied to the drains and were mopped up with a great sadness and engrossing regret, swaddling him all at once. 
 
 His own cheeks lost their vigour and plumpness and a grey set in. A grey unparalleled by clouds or silver but instead clouded his grey eyes in a dense fog. 
 
 A man once ran over a dog, accidentally, when he was a boy. He was that unfortunate canine at that very moment. A single tear etched a streak of colour through the pale of his gaunt face. That melancholy tear fell with the final fall of the knife.
