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Pleasure

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Pleasure.
A feeling of happy satisfaction and enjoyment.
People feel pleasure for many different reasons. For most, it's sex. For others, it may be completely different. For example, drag racers feel the pleasure from the wind on their faces, the drive of competition, and oh the many risks they take.

But I, for example, am different from most. I feel pleasure in an entirely different way than others.

When I was in kindergarten, I was already labeled as a sadistic and sociopathic freak. At least, that's what I heard the teachers say. I was young and didn't understand what they were saying, but was an advanced student. I would find out soon enough.

By second grade, I had already broken someone's arm for the first time. I didn't feel guilty. I didn't feel sympathy or empathy for them. I felt, well, pleasure. I felt pleasure from hearing the satisfying sound of the bone cracking and breaking, sound of the girl yelling and screaming, even watching the tears fall from her face.

In middle school, I learned to control myself around others. Even how to properly socialize, though beneath the surface I was still that crazy sadistic boy. Barely any "incidents" happened in middle school. My parents were always absent minded dumbasses. If I said that a kid slipped fell, broke most of the bones in his body, and I just happened to be there, they would eat it right up.

So I was doing fine until my high school freshman year. These seniors decided to do that thing called freshmen Friday. So, I snapped. When I was done, out of all that blood on the floor, not a drop of it was mine.

Jason, I believe was his name, was still breathing, but barely. All of his fingers were broken, most were open fractures, causing pieces of the bone to protrude out from the bloodied flesh. His stomach was slashed, a pencil was sticking out of his left eye, a small knife was pinning his hands to the floor... The list goes on.

My parents put two and two together, and just dumped me at a place for weird-ass crazy people.

I didn't understand why she took me there. I never understood why she took me there. I'm not crazy. I'm not like those people who bang their heads and stuff. I AM NOT CRAZY.

I'm a pretty great actor, so with the combination of my "improvements" and my worried mother, I was out in no time. I did classes online from home when I got back out.

But since I was cooped up for so long, I had all of this energy to release, and I needed a way to do just that.

It was simple at first. Find a person, put an end their lives, keep it moving. It didn't matter who it was. Just as long as it was the type of person no one would miss. A lowly maggot, if you would say. But soon, it became unsatisfactory just killing them.

I only did little things before they died. Just the simple stuff, break a few bones, bashed a couple faces in. Nothing much. Just a little something to release my energy.

Soon, that more dark sadistic side came out, and had much, much, more "fun" with them.

The most recent one I've done was probably the best one I've done so far. He screamed, begged me to let him go, but soon those turned into begs for death. I pulled off all of his fingernails, making sure he was watching as I tore the sensitive flesh. I pulled out his teeth, only to put glass in their places in such a way that if so much as a molecule in his mouth moved, he would only cause himself more pain.

As he screamed, I could only laugh as he choked on his own blood. And that feeling again, pleasure, overtook me. I poured hot boiling water on him, and then freezing cold water. His skin had a mixture of painful frostbite, burns and boils. He felt unimaginable pain at the slightest touch.

For the grand finale, I lit the guy on fire. He screamed as the flames licked at him, the smell of burning flesh was filling the room.

I just watched as he died in an agonizing way. When he did finally die, I just smirked as I admired my work. His body was unrecognizable, all of the skin burned to a crisp.

I made sure to leave evidence of what I did, and who he was. But I made sure nothing that could connect me to the crime was there.

I know you're wondering why I did that. Well, the only thing better than physical torture is psychological torture.

His wife will wonder where her husband has been all this time. She'll make excuses for his absence to tell their 12-year-old girl. When the police find the body, they'll work day and night trying to find me. They won't find me though. They have to live with telling the young newlywed, now widow, that her husband's body was found with glass in the place of his teeth, his right eye missing, his body wasn't even recognizable. If it weren't for the ID left at the scene, no one would even know who he was. Those detectives get to go to sleep knowing that I'm still out there.

The mother will find a way to tell her young daughter that "daddy has gone to a better place", keeping out all of the "undesirable" details. But somehow, she finds out every little detail of the murder of her father.

She isn't as happy anymore, easily irritable, and won't take shit from anyone. She separates herself from her own friends, preferring the comfort of being alone. Her own sense of pleasure starts to change, and over time, I get to watch as she kills her mother, torturing her. Blinded by grief and rage, blaming her for her father's death. After that, anything could happen. She may realise what she'd done, scream in horror and proceed to kill herself, or, continue as she is. It's fascinating, don't you think? How much one loss of life can greatly affect other humans.

Why do I do this you ask? What is the grand purpose of this? Well, all for the sake of pleasure, of course.

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