There's only ever on thought in my mind: Kill them. Bleed them dry. Make them suffer, like they made me suffer. I think these thoughts so frequently, it has consumed me. I am nothing but a murderer, someone you will never want to know. On the outside, I seem like a normal guy: brown hair, green eyes, a shy smile...if you based my personality on looks alone; you'd probably think that I was as nice and sweet as can be. HA! I'm anything but.

I think I first realized I was different when I saw the dead fox under the old oak tree. I was four, a young, happy-looking child, carefree, worried about absolutely nothing, just a little boy playing Frisbee with his dog in the park. Then I saw it, that beautiful red fur, matted dark brown with drying blood, those glossy eyes, staring at nothing and seeing nothing but the final moments of life, the seconds before all the light went out, the stiff corpse, completely immobile thanks to rigor mortis. To me, it was the most fascinating thing I'd ever viewed: a dead body, right in front of me. A normal boy would have run to his mommy, scared of what he saw; a normal boy would have gone and told someone that a fox's dead body was in the park; a normal boy would have been afraid. Not me. I was astounded, even more so as I picked the corpse up and cradled it in my arms, feeling stiff muscle and bone, the dried rough patches of fur matted with blood...I sighed happily, stroking the thing, feeling something in my mind calm into a soothing rhythm I'd never known before.

My dog growled at the fox-body in my arms, tried to take it from me. I didn't cry out, instead I swatted the pup on the nose, telling him in a firm voice "This is mine. You can't have what belongs to me...this is my fox. Go get your own..." Afterwards, I started to pet the corpse again, slowly setting it down on the ground, pulling at its forelegs and back legs, making its tail "wag" by moving it from side to side slowly...I couldn't get enough…I couldn't make myself stop. All I could think about was the fox, the dead fox in my arms, something I should have feared, but instead longed to hold close to me and never let go. What was wrong with me? I should have been terrified of that fox, I should have called out for someone, anyone to get it away from me, to call mommy and get me. Instead, I hid the fox in the roots of the tree and made a marker so I would know where to come back to, then left the park with my dog, resolving to bring a knife next time to examine the fox properly.

Are you thinking I'm insane yet? Well, I'll tell you the truth: I'm fucking psycho. I don't care about the people who think they can "help" me, or the ones who think I'm a "menace to society;" The only thing I care about is death, murder, killing…whatever the fuck you want to call it. Now, where was I…oh, yeah, the next day after the fox? I went back with a butcher knife that I'd gotten from the kitchen, as well as a towel and some of those plastic containers that you put food in, and looked around for the tree and marker. I found it after thirty minutes of searching (okay, thirty nine if I'm being honest), and I pulled the fox out of the roots slowly, making sure not to hurt it (not that it would have, at least, not in the sense of feeling pain…it was breaking the specimen that I was worried about). I stared at the dull brown eyes in its skull, as though I were trying to find out some sort of secret that might linger there. They told me nothing.

I sighed and laid the thing on the towel I'd brought, reminding myself mentally that I would have to throw it out before I got home, then pulled out the knife and one of the containers. My heart pounded nervously as I flipped the fox over to its back, making sure it didn't roll by keeping it held between my feet, holding the knife over the place where I thought the heart might be. I licked my lips as I began to press the blade into the fur, then into skin, wincing a bit when I felt the resistance of bone trying to stop the descent. I shifted the knife's position a bit, then watched as it slid in effortlessly, gliding through sinewy muscle, through flaking flesh, through arteries and into the softness of the innards. My hands started shaking as I realized what I was doing, but it was out of excitement, not fear; the reactions I was having were for all the wrong reasons, at least according to normal human ways of thought, but I felt so alive as I watched the knife sink in deeper, all the way to the hilt of the blade, then I shivered as I pulled it back out, the once silver surface covered in a blanket of red.

* * *

Looking back on that memory, I think I'm beginning to understand why people call me insane, why they run when they meet me in the alleyways at night. I guess it is a little crazy to want to watch a fox bleed, but I can't stop what my mind wants. That was only the first time I found out I was different...there were so many more as well. During the weeks and months after I found that fox, I systematically dissected it, putting its organs into the plastic containers, slowly putting those into a frozen part of the lake that stays in the middle of the park (it never unfreezes, not even in summer) so they stay fresh and more importantly, alive. (As alive as they could be, that was...I didn't want them flat and deflated...I wanted them pure and whole, away from the rot that could have made them completely unappetizing.) I read up on medical charts and learned everything about the organs inside the containers, making notes, planning my next "extraction," sometimes even drawing pictures of the innards, just to remind myself of what they looked like (because I couldn't bring them home; Mommy dearest would have seen, and then I wouldn't be allowed out anymore, would I?); I did all of this to satisfy some part of me that ordered more, now, don't stop, you can't stop, I have to have more, don't stop for anything!!!

So, as that part of me asked, I didn't stop. As a matter of fact, I expanded my research process, slowly moving from the fox to the bodies of dead birds, dead cats, and dead dogs...I never killed them myself, you see, at least, not until later. I was amazed at my new findings; with each new body, with each new experiment, I became closer to understanding what this thing inside me wanted. It grew increasingly excited at the thought of blood, but it was furious when all I ever received for it was the already coagulating blood of the corpses. It demanded I get fresh blood, still running pure red, from a living creature.

'How?' I asked it. 'How am I supposed to get that for you? I'm only a kid for Christ's sake! I don't know what I should do!!!!'

It answered me angrily, a scratchy, dark voice in the back of my mind: "What do you think you should do, boy? You know what to just have to do it on a living creature. Just stick the knife inside it. Besides, won't it be wonderful to watch the blood flow from the wounds? You've never seen that before. It would make a lovely sight..."

Here, the creature inside me trailed off, sending images into my mind: blood, flowing from the wounds I caused, not just flowing, but spurting, gushing out in a river of pure red. My mouth actually began to water a little at the thought, my eyes glazing over as I imagined pure drops of liquid rubies falling all over me, raining onto me....I groaned hungrily in my mind and smiled for the first time in years (this started when I was eight...I believe I forgot to mention that part.). I would make this beast inside me happy, I would let the pure crimson rain fall from the inside of a living being and onto the two of us, to keep us both calm and sane.

And that's how it started, my "descent into madness," as my doctors so charmingly put it. I didn't do anything too bad during those first few years, just cut off the ear of a dog or two, watching the pretty pretty rubies fall from the skin, tilting my head and taking in the frantic barking, the howls of was like music to me. I don't see how anyone else couldn't understand how wonderful it was. And they called me insane? HA! They're the insane ones...they don't know a thing about me.

Sooner, rather than later, the thing inside me started to hunger for more blood, started to coerce me into trying for a full-fledged kill. I happily acquiesced, killing my own dog right there in the middle of the night, stuffing a shirt down its throat, then pulling it back up when the dog had choked on its own vomit. I smiled serenely (I probably looked insane, standing there in the moonlight, covered in the blood and vomit of a dog), and I left the dog there on the front step of my neighbor's house (I don't know why I did that, but it felt right, adding the perfect form of ambience to the sordid tale I was just starting on) before heading back to my own Norman Rockwell-painting style house, sneaking in through the large quince tree that went right up to my second-story bedroom window. I couldn't believe what I had just done to my own puppy, my great dane, who I'd had since before I met this creature lurking inside my brain; I couldn't believe it would make me feel this good, couldn't believe I would have been this elated from the simple act of committing murder.

"And there's more to come," the creature whispered into my mind.

'There is?' I asked, a dazed look overcoming my features as I stared in the full-length mirror in my room, looking at the stranger in front of me who wore my face. The monster inside me chuckled and promised "Yes, there's more. So much more...a whole world out there for the two of us to enjoy. Between the two of us, we can make them into more research...we could do great things, boy. But are you willing to trust me?"

Now, contrary to what you might be thinking, I actually did force myself to think on what the being was offering. I weighed the consequences and the rewards in my mind, wondering which meant more to me, and which ones were more important. The other in my head didn't try to persuade me one way or the other; in fact, he stayed silent as I let my mind wonder about what could happen, only speaking when I made my final decision.

"So, boy, what is your choice?" he questioned.

I smiled and murmured aloud, "I want to do great things. When can we start?"

The demon in my mind laughed then, a deep scratchy sound, like tree branches being dragged down a window, or fingernails down a chalkboard. I didn't flinch, though, not even when he said "We can start as soon as you like. How about we practice on your family first?"

My "family"; Picture perfect in every way. Mom, a dark rooted blonde (she dyed her hair to keep the gray away, too bad it didn't last for long) with ice blue eyes and a bod that most guys would stare at for hours (I had to admit, she looked good for thirty); Dad, a brunette so dark he bordered on having ink for hair, knife silver eyes with a dark gleam inside (maybe he's where I got the demon from; with a look like that, he probably would be insane), toned and tan, looking wonderful at the ongoing age of thirty five; my elder brother, Jace, hair black like midnight (dyed, of course: he didn't want any of mom's brunette coloring), eyes the silvery-blue color of a lake in the moonlight, pale, but with a good bod (one I would have killed for), but totally gay for his newfound boyfriend; my little brother, Peter, hair a soft pale brown, eyes gentle kitten-blue, skin somewhere between pale and tanned, but not too much of each...he was the only one I could actually stand to be around any more. I "spoke" to the monster living in my mind 'You can have everyone but Peter. He's not for you.'

The monster chortled, but agreed begrudgingly, knowing I would never bring harm to Peter. "The way you go on about your little'd think you were in love with him."

I blinked at this accusiation, looking into the mirror, silver eyes (so much like dad's, with only a sprinkling of mom's trying warmth; oh, how I wished for eyes like Peter's) alight with the realization: Yes, I did love my little brother, much more than I should have. This made me worry a lot about what I was doing, caused me to pace around the room, mumbling underneath my breath. The monster ordered me to stop, to conserve my strength for what was to come...

* * *

BB: Okay, this is where I'm going to stop this for now...If you want me to continue into this look of madness, drop a review. Otherwise, this will forever be incomplete, unless I decide to delete it one day. Your choice.