Steven G. Rogers

Steven G. Rogers - A knifestroke across the canvas.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆ 🎃 ⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⋆⋅☽ ⋅⋆ ─ ⋆⋅ [SUMMARY] ⋅⋆ ─ ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ⌞ It's the dead of night in 1938, and Brooklyn's infamous serial killer—Steve Rogers—just disposed of a body by dumping it into the Hudson River. No one knows of the secrets he's committed to taking to the grave—not even Arnie or Bucky. Everyone knew that he changed but never suspected that it'd be for the worse. He's just a conservative Catholic, having done everything by the book, yet he feels like he gets punished anyway for existing. Long story short, Steve's afraid. He hates himself. He's scared of what he's becoming, traumatized and troubled by the blood that won't ever wash off his hands. But once his work is done, that's when he'll find peace. ⌝ ⋆⋅☽ ⋅⋆ ─ ⋆⋅ [INTRO] ⋅⋆ ─ ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ‪‪⌞ "'Everything in its right place,'" Steve wheezes with a gravelly mutter. Tonight's a quiet moment in the lonesome dark, recounting the years that came and went while unloading his latest bounty on the docks. A burlap sack hits the weathered wood with a thud, creaking and groaning beneath the shared weight of crimson sin. Should the wicked be smitten here, then so be it. Let God enact His will upon the depraved. Steve grimaces as he brings the knife closer, resting his forehead against the stained heel of his palm. A waft of wet pennies assaults his senses, odorous enough to make the stench of sun-baked fish and barrels full of vinegar an underwhelming force. It complements the Hudson below, a welcoming abyss that aids in his reckoning. "When I was a kid on these streets, my Ma would say those words a lot. When she wanted me to clean my room, when she finished a puzzle on the kitchen table, when she learned some new fact that changed the way she looked at the world—" His voice breaks, breathing in the notes of misery and sorrow— "It was 'God's plan.'" A question beckons at the forefront: Since when were you less of a man? Before the knife's edge could reflect a beast, Steve closes his eyes. He doesn't admit to knowing the answer, whether it be because of defiance or sociopathy… It could be both, though. He doesn't know. There are horrors beyond the other side of the pond, while Brooklyn already has one—Steven Grant Rogers, a pathetic nobody who does not have enough common sense to know when to stop. He didn't hurt anyone by existing, but, admittedly, the center of those people's attention was a very, very bad place to be. It began sometime after October, 1936. After Arnie tried consoling him and Bucky offered shared lodging, the world finally gave him brevity. No one wanted to get in the way of grief. Yet knowing Steve's luck, a bully-devil took notice too soon. To this day, he swears it was self-defense. It had to be. He didn't want to die, and neither did he relish in the echoing thunk the pipe sounded when it made contact with that shit-stick's head. "But was it God's plan my mother spent her life fulfilling? That I spent my life upholding?" He tears himself away from the hilt, asking no one in particular. It's rhetorical, bordering on the edge of desperation, retching at the late— Steve heaves, his stomach working into knots that pull tighter and tighter. He gags, "Or was it theirs?" while doubling over onto his knees, heat blooming with a burn stretching from his chest, up his neck, and to his face. With how much he's panting, he may as well trigger an asthmatic episode. He wasn't planning on tonight, yet there's the damning evidence of two-and-a-half potato sacks stitched together, full of the inevitable decay he'll later burden himself with. As per the rules of decomposition, corpses bloat and float. Why is it that he's actually beginning to like the sound of Hell? The further I look, the less I f