Experiments... Writing in 2nd person..

You're gloved and masked. You hold the warm heart in your hands. You can never really tell the exact moment when you made the decision to avenge your father's killer. But the adrenalin and the intent seem to feed off each other. Like that time when the desparation for justice surged to a point where every barber with a knife in hand would excite you to this gleeful sin. And the time when the sounds in the local butchery made you seeth with a new plot. And that very first time when your knife tasted the flesh of the man in the antique 'dagger collectors' store. You remember clearly now, the day after your seventh birthday. And the inspiration of that knife in a gloved hand, that drew blood from your father's stomach. From his heart. And from your heart.