Following Dad's Footsteps

I had to kill again.

My feet made small squeaks on the linoleum floor. Water was dripping from my wet hair, but I didn't care.

Kill, kill, my mind whispered to me over and over in a chant.

He was in the basement, the perfect spot to perform my act. I slowly reached into my trench coat pocket and took out my hammer. It was cold in my hand as anticipation ran throughout my body.

Anticipation for the kill.

I crept in through the already-opened basement door. My shoes still squeaking on the steps. One, two, three, I counted inside my head as I slowly came closer to the final thirteenth step. Four, five, six.

"Who's there?" He called out timidly. He was a helpless doe, while I was a hungry bear.

Seven, eight, nine.

"I have a weapon!" My prey shouted again. I smiled widely; he was going to put up a fight, though his intentions would be futile.

Ten, eleven, twelve.

"Who are you?" He called out to me again.

Thirteen.

I pounced on the middle-aged man. I'll admit, he could throw a punch, but I could also dodge them. This was all too easy for the experienced me.

Kill, kill, kill, the voice in my head chanted happily.

All of a sudden, one of the old man's punches caught me off guard and hit me in the nose. I could feel the blood spurting, but I knew it wasn't broken.

I've handled much greater pain, so this really didn't keep me distracted for long.

Just do it already, my voice hissed, now becoming impatient.

Finally, I raised my hammer and brought it down on his arms, which were blocking his head. He howled out in pain and brought his arms down, momentarily forgetting about the man trying to kill him as he inspected his arms. I raised the hammer again and he tried to put his arms up again, but I was faster.

Blood protruded from his head, as part of his skull was caved in on his brain. I brought the hammer down again and blood spurted like a fountain all over the walls and myself.

Cauliflower-like brains were scattered around his bashed-in head.

Another success.

I licked my hammer, cleaning the blood off of it. It was warm and sticky in my mouth. I moaned in satisfaction as my thirst was finally quenched.

Taking out my blade, I sliced the head from the neck in a straight line.

I turned the oven on and inspected the rest of the kitchen. They had beautiful stainless-steel knives all throughout the utensil drawer. I picked one up and slid the edge of the blade across the palm of my left hand, watching as a red line of blood slowly formed.

As the oven timer beeped, I put the head inside of the oven and cooked it for forty-five minutes, until it was ready to be stored away in the refrigerator, so it wouldn't spoil.

Licking the final traces of blood off of my hands, I walked out of his house and into the pouring rain.