ll bird Mama gifted me when I was twelve. Her wide eyes, filled wit

ugh me as I held the small blade, the bird's

silence, I felt no remorse, only a twisted satisfaction. Darkness eng

though Mama may have mourned the loss of her innocent child, she also recognized the fierce, untamed

n to reign it. No d

murmur, it was a lie as thick as the darkness that once enveloped me. But it was a convenient fabrication, o

old, I failed to grasp the depths at that time, her teary eyes filled with horror of my

wrenching realization that I had become a monster in

w a storm of rage and pain. No one made Mama cry and got away with it. Papa had to intervene, his presence a co

He decided I needed help, which in his twisted mind meant control. He got me a psychiatrist, a fucking personal therapist who

detached monotone, my eyes ref

t, scared bird. Papa still sometimes ask me why I did that. I thought the answer was simple. I wanted to see what lay beneath the bird's skin. I

nce she was? The black dots appeared as tiny harbingers of the violence I imagined. I watched her

me to get her

t realising how si

visible in the cold air, and looked down at the sn

But she was far more interesting. She could scream, cry, beg... unl

of determination and dread, were captivating. The cold wind bit at her skin, turn

-they were fragile, bre

soft flesh, the warmth of her blood spilling out, contrasting against th

mall frame. Suppress. S

ew minutes because, I swear to Satan, this seemingly bright, normal,

s this dumb, or tr

l would end up electrocuted and fried to death if she jumped on th

She raised her head, covered in snow, her lips parting as she spat it out. I couldn't help but imagine the sound she'd ma

te. She looked around, face red

ket. Her head whipped and she flipped back her hair feigning as if she didn't

she struggled to rise, eyes wide with panic. I imagined the sound of her flesh tearing, her screams echoing in the cold air. Her

with desires, and hearts that ache. And I know,

**