Dark born from Light

In every person, the evil darkness lurks. We all have madness, no matter how far you have to look. In some part of each mind, a sadistic side sleeps. Some freely except this and give into it.
I am one of those people and this is my story.

Chapter 2

When I kill, I remember

I still remember the first person whos life I stole away. Still feel his warm blood on my body. It was only a few years after I ran away. He was obviously a criminal. I believe he stole money from a bank. I met him when he came to my rundown little house. I call it mine, but I don't know who owns it. He thought no one was here. That the house was empty.

Of course, it wasn't. I was there, watching his every move from the shadows. He counted his money and laughed like a lunatic. He was a curious man, didn't get paranoid when he felt my eyes. Just settled onto the floor and made a bed out of all the green paper.

Some part of me wanted him to stay here. He was the first company I had since the little rats had made a home in a cabinet before dying for whatever reason. Lack of food, perhaps. I never was good at taking care of things. Not even myself.

I walked toward him, looking at every part of him. He looked like my father. I hated my father. So much that I almost kicked him. How had I not noticed that before?! He would pay for the way he hurt me. I can still feel the pain on my skin. Some scars still remain. But if I kicked my dad, he would just retaliate. Just hurt me again.

But not if I hurt him first. I went to the kitchen where the rat carcauss' still rested. I went to a drawer and reached in for the small knife that had been left here with a few other tools. This should be good enough. I walked back to my father, holding the handle tightly in my hands. As if it would fall away if I loosened my grip. He would die.

I held the knife to his throat, I remember from some movie I watched that a way to kill someone is by slicing the front of there necks. And that's what I did. Cut through his neck and was rewarded with the choking sound of my father. He looked at me, startled. Grabbing onto his neck in an attempt to stop the bleeding. He looked at the knife still in my hands and he angrily stared into my eyes. He lunged toward me, his hand coated with dark red. But he collapsed, turning the green paper shades of red.

I laughed, hiccupping in a nervous way. I had been scared, but he had looked like an idiot, the way he tried to hurt me when he was doomed to death. I looked at my fathers face, my eyes widened.

It wasn't my father after all. He was younger, for one, and had blue eyes. I felt sick in that moment and I remember that I vomited. I ran away, slipping on his blood and slept outside. Terrified to return. I still clenched the knife, as though I was afraid he would find me. My father was dead, but this night he had come alive. But it wasn't him. Some other man.

My father was a murder. He killed mom because she wouldn't listen. He tried to kill me. But I ran, so very far away. I think the house burned down. There was smoke the next day. He must have been in it. I think it was his body, the one they found near momma. I watched from the top of my favorite tree. Still in my nightgown, the one that I discarded for an outfit from some random store only hours after the news played on the TV's in a store window. I shed some tears for momma but nothing more than that. She had been cruel too. When dad wasn't around. But I wasn't sad now, just not understanding.

Taking that mans life had been so easy. And he did have money. Something I could use for myself. I would have to leave this place, find a new home. I would keep the knife though. It would protect me. I actually still own it. It's a treasure for when I'm scared.

My age when I first took a life was 11, five years since then, I have killed others. There blood is like mommas. Just like mine is. I move places, hurt others. I'm on the news, not my name or face, just where I have been and the people I left behind. No one knows it's a little girl, and they never will. I don't feel tears for those men. Just feel a sense of accomplishment.

But each face is like fathers. Even those on the streets who walk. They all drive me toward a desire to kill. But I hold that and keep it hidden, until I guide them into an alleyway. Promise them something they want. Then I hurt them like I hurt that man. And I take his things. Sometimes what there wearing. Other times, any money they have. I don't always care for money. My skills at steeling have increased with the years. It helps that I was always sneaking so daddy wouldn't find me.

Every time I end a life, no matter how many it is, I remember moms face. Daddys burned body. And the first man I ever killed. Every death is exhilarating. Brings me peace for my ever wondering mind. But still, there is more to tell.

Like the time when I wanted to experiment. Now that was a fun time. But, you know what, I'm sure you'll think it boring. Not nearly as exciting as what I can do now. The screams released from my toys are quite interesting if I cut the right place.

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