Cold Blood

"Please... Don't do this," Mother begged, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. The sight enlightened me. How i had longed to see her bleed.

To see her dead.

"Go to Hell," I snapped, delivering the final blow, a beautiful red smile on her throat, the wonderful sound of Mother gurgling on her own blood, strangling herself for breath... Just as I had imagined countless times before.

"You're a monster!" Brother screeched. It was obvious he wasn't immune to any pain due to all those years of being ridiculously spoiled, as he screamed from the slightest cut, the slightest drop of acid. Accidently, or not so accidently, the bucket of acid slipped from my grasp, and dumped all over the boy, his agonizing screams of sheer pain emanating, still audible when his corspe was just a pile of burnt flesh.

I didn't like the acid, really. It was too... clean almost. Sure, the screams were far more entertaining, but it was the blood that i was in it for. The wonderful crimson liquid. I planned on making each one of these monsters bleed as they had made me. They owed too much, and now it was time to pay up.

I smirked at the thought.

"Damn you, you blasted b*tch," Father spat, as he stood tied to the metal pole.

I admit it was rather hard to get him tied up. I had to wait until he had fallen asleep, then knock his head hard to make sure he stayed unconscious while i dragged him to the desired location in the front yard. His forehead was bloody from the hits' impact, and he still attempted to struggle against the ropes tying him to the marvelous metal flag pole, with the golden eagle on top. He had a love for eagles, and now he would die beneath one.

"Why the hell are you doing this, you sick minded child!" He yelled, his strong, bold words lined with fear. He was trying to hold onto the "tough man" appearance. Trying to act big and tough and mean, even though he was terrified. And it was plain for me to see, for i know how it feels to be scared, but try to act strong.

It's all in the mask.

"Do you honestly not know why I'm doing this?" I asked, the venom in my words revealing the bitter resentmant for this man, yet remaining deathly calm, despite the anger boiling inside of me.

How could he not know why?

The past sixteen years had been torture. These people were the torturers. Everyday I'd go to school, only to get bullied and pushed around. Used and left broken. And where were these supposed "beloved" parets, who were supposedly "caring?" They were participating in the name calling, and harrassing; their verbal and physical abuse.

I go to school: bullied and tossed aside.

I go home: beat, then ignored.

Was there anywhere safe for me? I spent the last sixteen years hiding from everyone, opening up to none, sitting and sulking in thoughts. Thoughts that only went wild over time. Soon i began to bleed. Cut the skin and bleed the pain out, bleed the thoughts away. But they'd just come back stronger. So I just had to cut deeper.

 The sight of blood entrances me. It calms me. It makes me yearn to see it again, more and more, in greater and greater amount. The thrill of killing excites me, makes me long to do it again; to make more and more people suffer in the agonizing pain i did internally and physically.

Though where did such sickening tastes originate from?

Perhaps this started when the abuse did. To feel the stinging pain from their impact. The drunken father. The big-headed bullies. The mentally disoriented mother. To see the bruises and scars. To feel the sores and several pains.