Page 128 of Satan's Spawn
About what I almost did with her.
What Iwantedto do with her.
It’s as irritating as it is confusing trying to understand what the hell is going on with my mind.
Why it’s bringing forth these feelings I don’t recognize.
For a girl who should disgust me.
Except she doesn’t, well, not anymore.
I’m so fucked up in the head there’s not enough pedophiles on this planet to satisfy the hunger I have to take every bit of innocence from this girl and consume it whole.
It’s why I have to stay away from her.
At least until these urges are under control.
I’m huffing and puffing as I jog down the steps to the near empty subway station, and it isn’t until a train speeds past the terminal that I let out a guttural roar, ignoring the two homeless fucks as I pace back and forth. Not stopping the routine until the train I take to get home arrives.
* * *
I barrel into my bedroom,stripping out of my bloody clothes to toss into a black garbage bag. My heart is still racing by the time I’m completely naked, kicking off my boxer briefs and tossing them, along with everything else but my knife into the bag.
Entering my en suite bathroom knife in hand, I switch the light on, making the entire space glow a dim red just how I like it.
Placing the weapon on the edge of the tub, I fill it to the brim with freezing water, stepping into it without a flinch from the temperature.
I can finally breathe steady as the water engulfs me, so I rest my head back and embrace the cold until my heart’s beating at a low rhythm.
Going over my actions from the night, I actively try to search for remorse or regret about what I just did.
As always I find none.
None, except for those kids who were subjected to that piece of shit’s depravity.
Visions of my own torment start to swirl in my head, increasing my breathing as I close my eyes.
Her hair.
The softness of her hands.
That evil smile.
Slicing the knife across her neck.
All of it plays like a skit from one of those vintage movie projectors.
Black and white and full of horrors.
Especially her words which play on repeat in my head, branding me until this day:
You’re riddled in sin, Isaiah.
Cut from the cloth of the Devil.
The likes of you need nothing more than to be scourged from the earth.
I seethe, slamming my fist into the tile wall beside me, again and again until my knuckles bleed.
