What is it about the blood-churning screams that send waves of ecstasy down my spine? Or the trickling of virgin blood splashing against my body? Oh gosh--the crunching of fingers being bent back to the point of dislocation and tearing tendons! I crave the terrified convulsions as I squeeze their necks until their eyes roll to the back of their head and lips turn blue; slowly their pulse stops, and I grin as I let their bodies drop to the floor in a lifeless heap.
I’m not evil.
Long golden hair. Washed daily and brushed morning and night. That’s what I wanted. It was too beautiful to boiled in oil along with the girl. I wanted the golden hair. I wanted to keep it in my special treasure box underneath my bed and stroke it when I felt the urge to touch something soft.
“Papa,” I said, “Her hair--can I have her hair?”
My father thought for a moment, “Yes. That’s a fair trade--her hair for my daughters’ stolen innocence,” he said.
After barking commands to his servants, they dragged the girl not much older than I, thrashing and screaming, in front of us. With a pair of blood-stained garden clippers, they cut my golden hair off of her head and handed it to me. My father stood up.
“I will show your daughter the exact same mercy you showed mine,” my father growled to the girl’s father--my sisters’ rapist and murderer.
I’m not evil. No. Far from it. I am merely mirroring the society around me. I am normal. Seeking revenge. Seeking power. Seeking immortality.
Satisfaction settled in my stomach as the servants peeled away the nails of the three-year-old boy; then, with their metal-tipped boots, they kicked and stomped on him until he was nothing more that a pile of broken, bloodied flesh.
“Please, stop!” the mother screamed. “Please--not my child!”
I am merely . . . a countess doing what I can because it is in my nature. And, as I bathe in the blood of Mary, I smile.
“The rats are hungry.”
I’m not evil.
Long golden hair. Washed daily and brushed morning and night. That’s what I wanted. It was too beautiful to boiled in oil along with the girl. I wanted the golden hair. I wanted to keep it in my special treasure box underneath my bed and stroke it when I felt the urge to touch something soft.
“Papa,” I said, “Her hair--can I have her hair?”
My father thought for a moment, “Yes. That’s a fair trade--her hair for my daughters’ stolen innocence,” he said.
After barking commands to his servants, they dragged the girl not much older than I, thrashing and screaming, in front of us. With a pair of blood-stained garden clippers, they cut my golden hair off of her head and handed it to me. My father stood up.
“I will show your daughter the exact same mercy you showed mine,” my father growled to the girl’s father--my sisters’ rapist and murderer.
I’m not evil. No. Far from it. I am merely mirroring the society around me. I am normal. Seeking revenge. Seeking power. Seeking immortality.
Satisfaction settled in my stomach as the servants peeled away the nails of the three-year-old boy; then, with their metal-tipped boots, they kicked and stomped on him until he was nothing more that a pile of broken, bloodied flesh.
“Please, stop!” the mother screamed. “Please--not my child!”
I am merely . . . a countess doing what I can because it is in my nature. And, as I bathe in the blood of Mary, I smile.
“The rats are hungry.”
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