Page 15 of The Madness Within

Her spine as the fulcrum.

Her skull, split clean down the middle.

I stood over the masterpiece, breath steady, hands dripping crimson and ink-black power.

This wasn’t vengeance.

This was justice.

And I?

I’d never loved my work more.

Her blood stained my gloves, still warm, still pulsing with the lie of life.

Brielle's body slumped against the marble counter, limbs arranged in a calculated mess, just enough disarray to whisper robbery. A shattered table. Ripped drawers. A broken lock on the back door. It would all tell a story.

But not the real one.

I crouched beside her, brushing a strand of blood-matted hair from her cheek. Her eyes, once sharp with ambition, now glassy with the weight of death, stared at nothing. Peaceful, almost. Beautiful in the way silence always was.

From the inside of my coat, I pulled a small, smooth object, a single obsidian scale. Sharp-edged. Polished. Cold.

My signature.

I placed it on the floor beside her outstretched hand, perfectly aligned with her lifeline, like a token to whatever gods might bother collecting her.

Let them think it was a thief. A lover. A debt unpaid.

But the ones who knew?

They’d recognize the judgment.

And understand: The system may let monsters walk. But I didn’t.

Malcolm Deen – The Butcher of Newark.

Malcolm was a butcher.

Not by trade, by thrill.

Hisbutcher shopwas a rental unit off a service road in the outskirts. No cameras. No windows. Just hooks, drains, and a freezer that hummed like a lullaby.

Twelve confirmed kills. All teenage boys. Runaways. Foster care ghosts. No one came looking.

Bodies were dumped like roadside litter, limbs mangled, torsos hollowed out. Organs missing.

Harvested like fruit.Each boy was found with their eyes wide open, mouths packed with butcher paper.

Malcolm was quiet. Polite.

He called me “sir” in every meeting, voice even and warm, like we were discussing stocks instead of slaughter.

Never once broke eye contact. Never once blinked. Never once showed remorse.

He wore a pressed shirt, clean fingernails, and always had a pin clipped neatly to his collar. I imagined it once dripping with spleen.

I got him off on a technicality.

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