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I required vengeance.  It sat in my belly like the worst hunger.  So I stole from secret places and great men the unwise call "Wizards."  So now I stalk the streets, my face covered with the Veil so I am unseen.  The only sign of my passing is from the blood drops from the immaculate white Stigmata gloves.  They drip from blood of the first sacrifice and they are suppose to burn a murderer like acid.  I walk through the night like a ghost and finally find my foe, my rival, my reason for vendetta.  I put my hands around his neck which begins to smoke from the holy blood.  He manages to rip the veil away and see who is his executioner.  He cannot talk but the look in the eyes says it all.  He dies not hoping for mercy or contrition but with the same burning anger I know is in my own gaze.

As he breathes his last I begin to scream, as my hands burn.

I am now a murderer.