Page 129 of Satan's Spawn
Then I reach for my switchblade, flipping it open with one push of the little silver button.
Holding my arm over the tub, I start carving into my skin the same words I’ve been trying to convince myself of since I was ten years old. A broken kid trying to find his way in a big world, but never convinced he ever really belonged in it.
My skin is so damaged from scar tissue I barely feel pain as it breaks open again, bleeding crimson lines down my forearm.
I can breathe now, but not as freely as when the blood from the words “still bleeding” are dripping into the tub, adding tiny specks of red into the water.
The heavy reminder I’m still human despite what my mother has always said.
“Stop fighting me, Isaiah! This is the only way.”
Mommy holds my arms in place as I scream.
“I don’t want to go with you!”
“You have no choice.” She lowers the knife toward my neck, making me cry out in fear.
“Please stop!”
“It’ll all be over soon, then we’ll be together again.” She draws closer with the blade, making me squirm for safety, but it’s useless.
Until the knife drops out of her hand, lands at the side of my head and she goes to reach for it, I finally get the chance to break free and grab the weapon before she can.
I do the only thing that comes natural and slash it across the side of her neck, making Mommy reach for it and squeeze, eyes bulging and mouth falling open in shock.
She coughs, falling off me onto the bed and I drop the knife, crawling to the edge of it and curling into myself as I watch her struggle for breath.
“I knew I was right.” Mommy chokes out. “You really are a product of the Devil.”
I cry uncontrollably as I watch the blood pour out of her, soaking the already dirty sheets bright red, until finally she goes limp and blinks slowly at me.
“I’ll see you in hell,” she whispers, right before her dulling blue eyes stop moving and the life that was left in them is nowhere to be found.
“Crayton Shaw!” My father booms, breaking me of my stupor.
“Son, what is this?” He looks appalled as he gapes down at me in the tub, which is stained with so much red it looks like paint.
“You’re home.” I grunt as I stand, reaching for the towel hanging from the wall before stepping out.
“This is getting out of hand.” He peers down at my arm and shakes his head. “That’s it, I’m calling Dr. Fenley.”
Dr. Fenley was my court ordered psychotherapist I was forced to see for a year at sixteen, after being arrested for beating the shit out of a neighbor in our building for complaining about the loud music playing from our penthouse balcony.
It didn’t last long, but Dad threatens to call him every time he feels like I’m going off the deep end.
Little does he know I live there every day.
“I’m fine, stop being dramatic.” I wrap the towel around my waist as I pass him, a trail of blood following me into my bedroom.
“You’re cutting again, I will not stop being dramatic.” He reaches for my shoulder and spins me around to face him.
Except I can’t.
I never can when I’m like this.
Because the guilt I mentioned earlier? The one I lacked for my latest victim? Well, I lied, I don’t only feel it for those kids Timothy abused, I also feel it when I look athim.
My father expects too much good from me, regardless if I’ve proven time and time again I’m anything but.
