The degeneration started with the cutting. I've always been the smart one... such an idiotic group of friends and family couldn't comprehend me. They made me slave away, either doing manual labor, or studying on hours on end with them for childish games I didn't need to study for. Always the fat tall one would bring me outside, telling me I needed to get out more. Going on nature walks, going to the beach in winter, and other useless wastes of time.

And the dumb one, the closest one, always asking to study, always asking to "hang out" together, always asking to help him with homework, with a project... as if I needed or wanted to do any of this. The guilt tactics did nothing to make me feel guilty, only to make me feel angry. As if I should feel guilty for giving him a favor I've done hundreds of times... with the favor never being repaid back, because the dumb one couldn't repay the favor, and I didn't need the favor in the first place.

The fat tall one, the birthgiver, could find anything... anything to complain about.


A particularly disgusting sample of humanity he was... a filthy, gambling, alcoholic, overweight, rageful creature. Even with constant 95's and above in school, with staying at home like a good boy instead of hanging out all the time, even with getting on the soccer team, the sheer perfection as a son... there was still rage. Hence began the cutting, the pain.

The razor edge pressing into my veins with a gleeful excitement as the blood seeped out. Day after day, I slaved over it in the confines of my dark room, intent on making my arms red from my wrist to my shoulder. And they noticed. The older female, the previous sibling of mine, asked why I always wore long-sleeved shirts... even in the blistering heat.

I did not answer. And when the tall fat one asked, I did not answer. And no matter what he screamed, yelled, or asked, I did not speak. And then the degeneration furthered with the smack. The beefy, hairy hand striking someone... defenseless. And he left the house in rage, storming out slamming the door behind him.

The next day, things went on relatively normal. I went to school. And I didn't respond to anyone who asked about the red mark on my face. And at the end of the day, as was expected, the dumb one, the steaming filth of moronity asked once again to "study". And I refused, having already studied with him four days that week. Then came the guilt tactics, calling me a terrible friend, saying I didn't deserve to be "smart" if I wasn't going to help anyone else, and something snapped. I went home on the bus as usual, and went home with the grim resolution that tonight would be the end of my soul.

I ate little, my stomach too sick. I stayed in my room all day, dreading what I would have to do. But I had to do it. I couldn't sleep at all. At midnight, I got up, and quietly walked to the kitchen. I grabbed the sharpest, most razor-edged knife I could. And my first victim, I decided, would be the fat tall one. I walked into his room slowly, to find him sleeping, as would be excepted. I took the knife and quickly and fluidly slit his throat. He woke up and tried to scream, but only a gurgle and some blood from his mouth came out. In a bout of rage, I jabbed the knife directly through his eye. I took it out and moved on to the next victim.

My older sister... so beautiful and kind. I finished her quickly, with the knife being jabbed directly into her forehead. I then went on to my younger brother and sister. Cute, but annoying. They were still sleeping. Looking at their faces, I felt the guilt, the shame, and the love for them. But I was too far gone now. I stabbed them both in the forehead with the knife, and pulled it back out both times. Pocketing the knife into my pocket, I walked outside and went onto my bike.

Riding it into the direction of the dumb one's house, I stopped my bike there and looked for a good entrance. Finding an unlocked window, I opened it and went in quietly. Already having been to his house before, I creeped over to his room and opened the door. He shuffled a little in his bed, murmuring something. I held my breath and stood as still as I could. After being certain he was asleep, I went in and slit his throat. I dropped the bloody knife and got out the house as quickly and quietly as I could. I trotted around dejectedly, and ended up in alley.

Walking in, I sat down on the floor and buried my face with my hands. "Oh God, what have I done?! Oh God what have I done? Oh God, what have I done?" I cried. I could hear something behind me, but I didn't care anymore. It was probably just some filthy, homeless human. Only when the thick, red hands wrapped around my neck did I care.

"God is not here right now," it rasped. "But I'm well acquainted with that fool."