The dead eyes of a misused girl steals the heart of a 19-yr-old homicidal liquidator on loose. He murders those who scathe, even simply by touching, her. Since aimed only because of her helplessness, she's got no problem with that.

Innocence in Bliss

The first time they saw each other... from eye to eye... he'd jumped down the tall skyscraper the split second after she had derailed.

Both carried pain in each other's eyes.

However, she could never match up to his hatred... as he could never match up to her sadness.

He seemed familiar with the circumventing of wind, as they plummeted closer and closer down the ground.

The moment she looked at his eyes of utter detest of the world, she wasn't sure if he'd been jumping in to save her... or he just wanted to die before she did.

Six Years Ago.

Ever since he could remember, his father beat him nearly to death every day he could. There was no time to verbally hit him, so he used physical beatings instead, blaming everything on him for everything that had happened.

Whether it be a job mission failure, or a bad day outside, his number one object was always his son.

To the old man's weak eyes of hate, the boy was nothing but a mere punching bag.

...As if he would never break.

Kill him.

...As if we has supposed to get used to the pain.

Kill him.

In truth, he nearly did. His father penalized him plenty enough to make him so numb, anybody can practically shove a hand through his chest, take his heart out... and he wouldn't even flinch.

No other amount of pain can withstand the hatred he felt for inheriting the man's dirty blood, hatred yet still loved for his mother who let him into her to deliver him into existence.

At least... that was what he already felt when, one night, his father came home drunk, came complaining to his wife that fucking her wasn't enough. Apparently, the mother and the son realized that the secretary wasn't enough to sleep and fuck with either.

The first victim was his son. The advantage was that both wife and son was prepared long before the man had opened the door.

In his thirteenth year, his thirteenth spring, summer, and fall...

He went to him in the living room, where he was guiltlessly watching his cartoons, and simply started beating him... twice as hard as he had done from the past days of his life.

Of course, using a long stick can really hurt the skin and joint.

Stab him... !

He blamed the boy for ever making his job as bad as it never was.

He blamed him for having to pay anything he had broken in all the restaurants they go to.

He blamed him for making his days shitty.

He blamed him for making his mother sick.

He blamed him for ever being born.

He didn't need to hear those words from his father's lips to know that he hated him. All he had to do was look at his father's eyes and see the red anger emitting only at him.

It was enough to hate the old bastard back.

Murder him... !

Beating after beating... he merely lay on his side... screaming in pain as his father bloodied up his pale skin.

He couldn't run away. Not when his mother was still there... helpless and weeping.

Day after day, he faced a world of strangers, whom he didn't look once, nor ever twice. He tried not to remember people's name, because he wouldn't see them anymore. He was barely allowed to go out for school anymore because his mother needed him.

There was no point in knowing anybody when you're already dead to the point you hate living so much no matters but your own shadow.

Dead. A dying corpse, decaying beneath the earth of hell.

A living body with no soul but a spirit full of hatred.

He could read people's eyes. Every one glance at him, he didn't need him to open his damned mouth and say whatever it was that was swimming within his glare.

He hated living.

When his father stopped hitting him, he quickly grabbed the butterfly knife he had stolen from his father's work room when he was five... kept it behind him for a secret.

In case.

No matter how he looked like it, he wasn't a cutter.

He tried cutting once... or twice... or maybe more... but it never helped. It went numbed on his fragile skinny skin until it started to hurt a little bit. He'd seen his mother do it. He'd seen her cry because of doing it and heard her muttering why it wasn't enough.

She had cut herself so deep last time, she was sent to the hospital. She stopped doing it after because the pain only numbed her arm... not her heart.

Hated living...

With a rippling yell, he immediately stood up and stabbed his father on the right foot, hoping to God it sliced off a few of his little ugly toes. The man cried and fell on his face against the blood splattered carpet.

The sight of silently shocked pale face against his own dots of blood on the ground, hit a center on the boy's heart.

If he'd noticed it, a strange sparkle of revelation hit him, and he couldn't help but smile.

Pleasure... the pain is pleasure... murder is pleasure...

Revenge... look at the wonderful expression in the asshole's face!

With all the beating he'd had for ten years, he'd never once made a pain-streaked face as shocking as his father made. From looking at the man's facial, the boy slowly took out the knife and observed as his father crunched up his nose and screamed.

Kill him.

Stab him.

Slice him.

Murder him to tiny little pieces nobody can stitch put back... !

The whole world grew dark and red blood swirled all around him. Only his father and his knife lay visible to his eyes.

All thoughts of fear subsided.

Like a butter knife through a soft greasy steak...

He fell on his knees, near his father's twitching body and subconsciously pressed the butterfly knife onto the back of his father's leg.

There was a shrill of scream somewhere... but he wasn't aware. All he heard was the quiet squirt of blood pouring out around the sunken blade. He watched as the red ooze, similar to the one's swirling above his world of darkness, slide down his father's leg and onto the ground.

Thick and heavy.

Pretty... pretty, liquidy, and bloody.

Without knowing it, he started giggling. The squishing sound sounded like water balloons bursting.

It sounds wonderful!

He repeated the process again and again and again, on different spots, until his hand started digging... onto the skin, faster... quicker... and harder.

Murder the asshole.

His giggles, grew more huskier, and he started laughing with the rhythm of his thrusts. Soon, blood pooled towards his knees. He felt hot liquid wrap around his cold skin.

Hot, he thought, this is... warm... !

His cold skin heated up and he knew he liked the pleasure. With another round of stabbing, he started to slice the soft flesh of chest, criss-crossing marks all over his father's body, carelessly ripping his clothes.

It's like... a coat around my freezing skin...

I need more warmth!

One word repeated all over his head, from the shows of murder he secretly watched at night, watching as the killer stabbed people he didn't even know. Watch as family's child killed.

Kill. Kill.

Kill... !

Kill...!

KILL!

There was no time to think about the screeching of begging pain that silently surrounded him.

All he wanted was to watch as blood spouted like fountain and drizzle down the ground. All he wanted to make his father pay for what he did to him. To see the horror in his father's face like the horror in other murdered people's face.

The strange look of pain made him more excited and the feeling was... thrilling. All he wanted was to see his father dead right in fr—

"Khris!" A female voice shrieks at him, startling him back to life. Blank eyes became pale lime colored. His laugh faded as the world of darkness disappeared.

His mother is crying, screaming, begging for him to stop. He tilted his head to one side and smiles.

"Yes, mother?"

He looked back and realized he had stabbed his father way too much than he'd wanted. What features of his father's outside looks were completely... severed.

"What did you... do?" his mother breathed, falling on her rear, staring at her son with a petrified look.

The boy looked at her. There was confusion in his face. He stared at his mother for a few moments. When she didn't read what was written in his eyes, he moved his lips.

"I'm... just taking out the trash, mother, like you wanted." He smiled, "there's nothing wrong with that."

His mother stared at him.

"Y—you just... just... !" she pointed at the messy corpse in front of his son. "Y—you... !"

The boy's lips moved into a straight line and all expression of confusion became tranquil. The petrified look his mother was giving wasn't the right expression. It wasn't the expression she needed to be showing.

"What's wrong, mother," he questioned, "you don't want to see father dead? I thought you wanted him to die... ?"

"I... I didn't... !" his mother shook her head violently, trembling and pale, "I—I never... !"

"But mother looks at father with the same eyes I have when I look at him," the boy responds, "you want him dead, too, right, mother? You wanted to see him die because he wasn't making our lives really awful, like I wanted him to die, too, didn't you? You... you wanted to kill him, too, right, mother?"

And you were planning to do it soon. But I got to him first, his subconscious thoughts snickered in delight.

The boy smiled when his mother's stricken face distorted into what she normally looked everyday.

Blank and vacant.

Ah, you're back to your normal self, mammy.

She went on all fours and tardily crawled towards him. She sat on folded legs in front of him. With a dead gaze, her lips formed a small smile and whispered, "good job, Khris."

The boy grins back, child-like image of who he used to be appearing like an illusion hi smother longed to see once more.

"No problem!"

"...Kill me next."

The boy stops laughing to gawk at his mother.

"Huh...?"

His mother does not reply. She only looks at him with black eyes, hoping that he could read what was written in those dead and vacant ones of hers.

"Just do it, son," his mother begs. "Strike me now. Kill me. Just kill me like you did your father. Please, son."

No.

He wanted to live with just his mother.

He killed his father so he wouldn't be in the way.

He didn't want his mother dead.

"I'm sorry I wasn't always there to tell you to keep on living."

There are tears slowly strolling down the boy's cheeks and his lips begin to quiver.

There is no living humans that deserved to live, but his mother.

"I don't have enough chord in my heart to twinge in happiness."

Nobody else is worth remembering, but his mother.

"I'm already dead, beloved."

Nobody else is worth loving... but his mother.

"Because I'm meant to be."

Nobody.

That is what he thinks, as he slowly presses his knife against his mother's chest, where the broken heart lay beating sadly and alone. A heart that nobody could ever mend.

Not even her own son.

His mother smiles at him, as he begins to twist his knife through, finding more entrance to reach her mother's main organ.

She gave a second of pain until she whispered 'thank you, dearest beloved' and closed her eyes. It took him a few moments to admit she was already dead long before she whispered to him.

Waterfall of blood slithered down her body, splashing his tear-stricken face and he pulls out his knife and awaits until his mother leans towards him.

With open arms, he embraces his mother and begins to cry.

There is no such thing as a soul worth living.

There is no such thing as a human being good all their life.

There is no such thing as connection with other souls.

There is only deceit in the world.

There is only lies.

There is only hate.

That is what he thinks when he lays down his mother on her back and jostled his knife back on her chest to the spot he had already stabbed. Without hesitation, he begins to slice from the midst of her breasts and down to her bellybutton. He stuck out the knife and started another slice underneath the breasts to criss-cross with the longer line.

Never really noticing that bloody tears stained his cheeks and lips.

His dead eyes shines with satisfaction as he then carried her five feet beside the messy flesh that once was his father.

Humans are monsters.

Therefor we are needed to be rid of.

Standing up, he looked at his masterpiece with sadness and atonement, staring at the cross he had carved on his mother's front.

And I will get rid of them monsters.

...All of them who are being delusive and deceived .

He took off his top and held out his butterfly knife.

Living?

There is no reason to live with a life full of no meanings.

Nobody is allowed to live with these many sins and nobody is left alive with these much sins.

From his left hand, he slit his wrist deep and slid it all the way up his shoulder, passed the other shoulder, down to his other wrist. He begins to feel numb on his arms.

You are unworthy of protecting anybody, your mother.

You can only kill those you hate... and love.

Feeling his own red fluid flow out, he aimed the tip of his knife onto the center of his forehead and slit it, down to the side of his nose, jumping away from his lips unto the skin below it, down his chin to his neck, and all the way to his stomach.

You are unworthy of living with a soul. Because you killed. You atoned a sin.

You are a sinner.

Another satisfying mark, he smiled and sat between his mother and father's body. He dipped his forefinger onto his father's blood and scribbled something above the three's figures.

If mother is dead, I'm dead, too.

If mother is dead, I will be with her.

He struck his thigh with his butterfly knife and laid down on the floor. Time is slipping away for the family with no chance of life.

The world is full of monsters.

The need to rid of them is overflowing your bubble of hatred.

It is already cracking.

If you may die, you will haunt your father's grave forever.

If I may live, the world will be nothing but full of bloody despair and pain. Bodies and bodies will be thrown everywhere on the street until no human being is left standing on this earth.

This planet called Earth will soon be nothing but a planet of graveyards.

Caused by me.

-

One month later, police and coworkers searched the house for the family. They found the three lying on the floor in a pool of blood.

The female was killed through the heart, marking an end with a cross deeply carved on her chest. The father was brutally murdered, stabbed enough to dismember all his joints and limbs, as well as chopping his inner organs. There is no way to revive him anymore. The boy lies between his parents, arms stretched like a cross, to which a large cross is heavily embedded from his face, to his arms, to his chest, and to his abdomen, under a short coma.

There is a word written above the family's corpses:

Khross.

The mother and father instantly passed away from stabbing, appointed as suicides to the law and public eyes. Nobody blamed the innocent boy, sworn in silent, thought to be in shock, the two months after awkening awakening.

The boy survived his thigh wounds... and lived.

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-to be continued.