I role play. This character was created by me but in no way do I agree things such as animal violence -- he's pretty messed up in the head, he agrees with anything that may inflict pain. Although he's one of my favorite, there's more to him that meets the eye. I don't even think he's really sure what he's into, but he's what most would call...clinically crazy. In his opinion, he'd just tell you he was born with the ability to see the whole story. There may be a part two, it all depends on the reaction of any readers; if no one wants it, I doubt I write it.

WARNING: This DOES mess around with ANIMAL CRUELTY. No shit it's wrong.

Reviews are encouraged.

He pressed his face to the window in a way that stunk of boredom. His hand, although exhausted, ran its fingers through the thick and murky liquid beside him, rubbing it into the carpet so that it would sink all the way to the floor and blood, it was, of course. The letter opener wasn't far away, polished by a red that reminded him almost of tomatoes, an ugly brick shade at the tip where the substance had begun to dry. It was just starting to air out and it saddened him that it would have to be washed soon; it was a shame the maroon it was turning into would soon be carried away to mix with a whiteish blue, that horrible near-clear substance that reeked of suffocation... Nothing it touched would ever be the same again. Water, no matter what the doctors said, destroyed more than his hands ever could and because of this, he leaned his head back and softly sighed.

The reason was clear. If Antony had been here, he wouldn't have killed her...he wouldn't have touched her at all, really. He hadn't meant to end her life. He'd only meant to have a little fun, as all teenage boys do, as he had never done and goodness, was it already four o'clock? His mother would be home soon. His mother always called his name at four fifteen.

She was heavy. For a four-year-old, he hadn't expected this much dead weight and no, he had not intended on the pun, only intended on covering the small slashed body in a place where he could store her until his mother left again in the morn. She would do well in the deep freeze, as any lifeless flesh would, but no, that wasn't an option. They were having some type of meat tonight and he didn't think his mother would approve of a piece so...freshly thawed. Then again, he also didn't think she'd approve of the fur or the collar with a tiny inscribed phone number and, underneath, the name that clearly read Estasia.

Again, it was all Antony's fault. Antony liked pain. The dog hadn't been much for it but, well, it was all easy after he'd drugged her with enough Tylenol to put an adult to shame. He wasn't sure she'd awake but he had to try -- he had to sink the replicated sword into something soft and it had to bleed. He wasn't an idiot. He wouldn't cut his own skin, no, no. That was Antony's job. Antony was his canvas but the animal had been his prey and he was sorry, somewhere. As he shoved her into the linen closet next to his room, one he hoped his mother would never use, he even frowned. He didn't go as far as to say a little prayer but, well, what was the point in praying when the only thing to pray for was coverage for your sin? It was hypocrisy. The hospital had told him that and, according to many, those kind of places just didn't lie. Despite being a place to fix you, the words they used were recipes to fail and he'd cooked it enough to believe it.

The door snapped shut with a click. He would have to lie about the blood - lie or clean the carpet with bleach but his diagnosis didn't consist of disposing the evidence, it had only consisted of committing the crime. His mother would understand. Antony would understand.

The hospital would understand.

The blood on his fingertips had already begun to sink into his skin - before it could go very far, he lifted the worse of the two and sucked it between his lips. He didn't like the taste of it. Matter of fact, he hardly believed it had a taste at all. He only drank on Antony's after a session because it turned him on... no, no, no. To say he would actually drink the stuff was a lie. Lapping would be a more appropriate term but, well, he gave up on appropriate a long time ago. He might as well just say he enjoyed it.

He would probably dream of her tonight. Dream of her with her family, of her with her canine friends; it would do him no good to pretend to forget her. He didn't hate her. If he was going to tell the absolutely truth, he would just say that he hardly even knew the thing. She was blood, she had blood, and that was what his fingers itched for, that was what he wanted. To see the flesh cut so easily was just another way to get him off. Antony would kiss him and touch him and he could slice and mar him, cut and lick. It was their way of doing things and although the doctors clearly disagreed, it was just the best way to go. To substitute a border collie for the time being was forgivable but the only person judging him would be he himself - Antony would understand because Antony was sick, too. He might yell but that'd be the end of it.

It's not like he had sex with her. It's not like he could. I mean, it's not like he had sexual intentions at all. To tell the truth, he wasn't even sure if it was his hands that had ended it for her; it very well could have been the meds, he'd given her more than ten. Overdose the poor thing and then make pretty art with the sharp object. For a fifteen year old, he thought his logic was rather spiffy. For a fifteen year old, he felt as old as a man and, for a fifteen year old, his hands had split more flesh than a surgeon. On the inside this made him smile.

It wasn't an addiction. It wasn't. It was a hobby, a second way to breathe. Some people were into art. Some people were into four wheeling -- others, well, others were into blood. Others were into the way it seeped out of the body and onto the floor, the way it rolled over skin (or in this case, matted hair) and puddled in their hands. The way it sang. Blood sang, you know. He was sure that he'd heard it speak. It would just take him a little while to decipher what had actually been said.

He couldn't tell Tai of this. Tai, his very best friend, Tai, his pretty little lover. Tai was the only girl he'd ever touched, the only female he would ever let touch him -- Tai was, in so many ways, his mirror image. The only difference was that she'd probably drown him for what he did...she'd drag him, kicking and screaming, to a tub of water and hold his head under until he died. Until the clear, blueish water ran over his nose, into his mouth and suffocated him; until he was, at the very least, pale and still and dead. It wasn't her way to do things, but everyone knew enough of his fear to force it onto him in revenge.

He would never be the same again.

The carpet was soft between his toes when he bent down to study the blood. It had sunk into the fabric, tight on it's hold as it snaked it's way into the floor. Blood ran forever. If no one was there to stop it, it seeped and rolled and cascaded and god, he closed his eyes to catch his breath. The sight of it gave him such a rush. The sight of it... he sat back on his heels, his hand dropping to his thigh. He didn't have the time for this, didn't have the time to enjoy it properly and certainly hadn't the time for what he truly needed to do. His fingers itched that way, closer and closer to his crotch, but at the sound of the clicking at the door he quickly pushed it away.

He wasn't a killer.

He would never kill.

Casen, then, could only study the area with a regretful sigh. He'd been smart enough to move the furniture so that the bottom fabric wouldn't be exposed to his activities but, now, now he had seen just exactly what he'd done. Genius. He was a bloody genius and he smiled on the outside this time, lifting himself up from the carpet with a childish grin.

The clock read four eleven as he pulled and settled the love seat over the blood spot on the floor. When he turned and began to walk back to the stair, he failed to notice the hand prints; spaced far apart, they were too light to be mistaken for human liquids, too dark to be taken for anything other than lipstick. He wasn't a killer.

He would never kill.

It was still Antony's fault, after all. Antony may have been his lo -- was Antony his lover? If Antony loved him, Antony would have came. Antony would of showed up before noon and Antony would have kept him from doing it because he knew Casen from the inside to the out and he would never kill. As the dirty blonde laid down onto his bed, he swore he wasn't a killer.

Not that it mattered of course. Not that any of it mattered; it was another notch in the bedpost on his record, another thing to deem him unacceptable to be and communicate with other human beings. It was just another thing to tip the fuckheads off to what really lay in his head - a place none of them had even begun to reach and a place that Casen, sometimes, didn't care to walk into himself. It was another thing closer to insanity and vaguely, Casen enjoyed it.

But no, he wasn't a killer. He heard the click of the front door again; their lab, Shen, had been jumping on it since the incident with the couch. He'd let her whine. He'd actually make up some off the wall reason as to why his mother shouldn't let her in at all because, border collie in the closet plus a dog with excellent smell wasn't the way he planned to spend his supper. He'd actually been looking forward to eating it.

He turned onto his side to face the wall, studying the small fingerprints he'd marked there whenever the room was painted it's current soft blue -- he was seven then, corrupted in his own way but still innocent enough to be considered that horrible word in which it seemed all criteria for living was based. Normal, that was. He was normal then, according to his parents, but life before now just seemed like a blur. It hardly felt as if it had happened, only a feeling that was tucked in the inside of his stomach; a memory it seemed he didn't create. He didn't kill dogs then. He'd cut his stuffed animals, sure, perhaps his sister's dolls a time or two but no...never something that breathed. Never something that ate, slept, shit and...

Oh, hell. Casen smiled. He wasn't sure if he was a killer or not. He had just done so, but did that make him a murderer? He'd took away the life out of a living creature and oddly enough, felt nothing but... what did he feel? Content? Did he really feel...yes, he was afraid so - he was afraid the word content was correct.

Casen had killed and as soon as he heard the front door push open, Casen had closed his eyes.