Chapter 0: How It Began
A smile appeared of my cold features as I struck the match, catching the tiny match head aflame with the bursting chemicals it contained. It reminded me of the time I had started doing this, killing people for self amusement and comfort. The less people the better I believed since then.
I remember it all started on a cold December day when I was in middle school, when snow had covered the asphalt and roads causing the school to be closed and me to be left at my dreaded home. At first it wasn't so bad, being able to wake up late, and stretch without an alarm waking me, but then my parents awoke and began to yell at one another again.
Already weary from the night before when they were yelling at each other, I took my pillows and tried to drown out the sounds of them yelling a by shoving the pillows to the side of my face. The neighbors could hear and I was ashamed, yet they turned such a blind eye to such an obvious event. It was as though they didn't care, then again nobody does, do they?
The yelling go progressively louder and louder, making my tiny head hurt. I was only seven or so at the time and was sick of this, but didn't say anything in fear of being beat by my father again. He would constantly beat me for any wrong move or do the other things...
Suddenly the yelling stopped, I recalled as I poured more gasoline on the ground chuckling. I had sat up staring at the door hoping it was all over, hoping my father had not hit my mother again, but then I heard something, a loud ominous bang, and a cry. I stood curious and scared about the noise. I walked to my old brown door and lightly cracked it open, outside my mother laid just a few feet from it, holding her stomach coughing up blood and other substances, holding onto what would be her last few moments of life.
I was about to call out to her, but then I saw my father put the gun to her head. Then for a long moment nothing happened, until a second bang rang throughout the entire neighborhood. I bit my lip to hold back a cry from the noise and stared at my mother's motionless body. I didn't understand death yet but I knew she wasn't going to move based on how her brain had splattered onto the floor, in a pattern I would never forget.
My father aimed the pistol side of his mouth, and I slowly entered the room, "D-daddy?" I recalled me stuttering as I slowly crossed the room.
He looked at me but kept the gun in place, I had to ask, "Why a-are you eating t-the gu-n daddy?"
Slowly he took it out of his mouth looking at me with hatred, "Go back to your room, d-daddy is busy."
I looked at the gun, then back at him, "Dadd-" he cut me off by cocking the gun and bringing it back to his agape mouth, finger on the trigger.
I wanted to plead with him not to do it, despite what he had done to me, but before I could protest he pulled the trigger, sending out the third bang, and he fell to the ground, his blood and possibly brain splattering all over my face and tv brand night shirt.
I stepped back in shock, ears ringing from the big boom of the gun, and I fell back on my tiny rear, staring at them. I sat there for the longest time, waiting for my mother to get up or for my father to yell at me, but it did not happen. I was alone, and I soon knew it.
After some time passed I stood and went to the bodies, my mind fuzzy at that point as my tiny hand felt my father's head, scooping up the blood into it. A small smile formed on my pale face as I sat next to him facing a wall and began to almost paint with his blood. Something in me snapped that day and I began to grow delusional, and I didn't care what I did.
Now I dropped the match on the floor, and it instantly caught ablaze, reminding me of the song I sang as I painted with blood on my walls. I sang an old song my grandmother would sing when cooking meats. I sang,
Chop up the little one
Bring up the second one
Wait till it's all done
They cannot run
I sang the first verse painting a pig running around,
The runt is not needed
Toss it quick
Only big ones bleeded
Give it just one lick
My tiny voice sang, the final verse on my tongue,
Place it on a plate
Eat it up with smiles
Better not be late
Meat come at the piles
I thought over the words and giggled looking back at my father, and stood going to the kitchen. I grabbed a big knife I now identify as my favorite butcher knife and went to work on cooking what I wanted.
It took a long time for me to get it just right, but once I did I felt accomplished. Mother would've been proud of me, but sadly she was my soup and what kept me fed until people began to notice their absence. Mine of course went unnoticed...
I walked from the burning building thinking over the last bit of the foster homes I lived in, now knowing that as I heard the screams of the people I left in my final foster home to burn alive; that I lived in the same home it started in, and the paintings I drew over that time were still covering the walls in beautiful brownish red shades, the smell of blood covering the walls.
I walked in and laid across the couch and very quickly fell asleep, knowing how grand my nightmares would be that night. The smell of blood only making it easier on me.
I didn't wake until early the next morning, to find something displeasing to be standing on my doorstep.