I used to be an only child. I was slow, and ugly too. But however ugly I might have been, however difficult, or stupid, I was not unlovable.

She was. Filthy thing, that baby. She took all of our parents' attention. Lilly was her name, as I remember, not that it matters. She began to steal it away from the womb. My parents even turned my room into a nursery. Can you believe that? Children with "my disposition", as mother called it, needed "their own space", and "consistency above all things". Imagine everything you ever knew ripped apart by two tiny hands that haven't even been born yet. Then, you will know how I feel.

 So, three days after my eighteenth birthday, my blue walls were painted pink, shag carpet was installed, a new crib pushed in the corner, and explosion of plush toys covered the floor.  It was a little girl's paradise; it was a teenage boy's hell.

Where does that leave me?

All alone, such a dangerous thing.

I have OCD, paranoia disorder, and a touch of schizophrenia. A long list, but I managed it gracefully enough. My world was neat, compact, consistent, perfect - until my baby sister, Lilly, shattered it. She shattered the peace in my soul. She was a trigger, of sorts. I need a release from at all, the god-awful pounding in my mind, that morbid little whisper that rippled my already fragile sanity. I stopped swallowing my medicine, like a good little boy, in the hopes that my eyes would open to a sweet reality to stop this madness.

 Then, I saw the picture.

My parents left out an ultrasound picture in the living room. That's what began my fascination of all things inside a person—delicate tissues fed by red hot blood, all coiled up so neatly in a soft, meaty shell. I craved to unravel at all, that complex human existence- to unwind, to see the color of scarlet clinging into soft droplets on my skin, feel the thrum and pulse and heat of life in my hands, to rip and tear and observe.

Beautiful. Delicious. I was smart, in the beginning. I only “processed” small cats or squirrels. I always dissected them alive, sedated with the pills my mother used to sleep comfortably. One or two pills were enough; they never woke up. I hid the torn asunder, dripping corpses in the woods, and learned very quickly that blood leaves the most horrid stains. In my dreams I was surrounded by the living remnants of my work, but I was not afraid. Schizophrenia numbs the shock of such hallucinations.

 But I needed more. These petty existences didn't satisfy my craving - no, need - for gore.

I needed... Her. I came to this triumphant realization when mother was 7 months along. I became an expert in prenatal care, always surprising mother with healthy snacks or vitamins. Luckily, the library was well stocked with books for expectant women. Before, I sulked whenever the fetus was mentioned. Now I eagerly observed the conversation, so I could better understand my future specimen.

 In the meantime, the dolls held me over. Pretty porcelain things I stole from little girls around the neighborhood, doll shops, or even purchased from thrift stores. They were my companions who never filled the air with idle chatter, who never complained, or questioned any of my actions. Every time I acquired a new doll, I named her, spent time with her, became acquainted with her; however, the instant I tired of her company, she became a specimen. I loved the cool brush of their soft, glassy limbs in my palms as I cracked, shattered, twisted, dismembered...I get excited, just reminiscing.  I hung my specimens on a thick piece of cord, strung up between two big pine trees in a clearing in the woods nearby, to keep them from following me around. A lack of medication meant the doll’s disjointed bodies were prone to trailing me, fixing my eyes with their glassy empty sockets, and struggling to speak with their jawless mouths in a wailing falsetto. However hard I tried to ignore them, the moans came back to me at the oddest times; but I never regretted my activities. Sometimes when I would be winding the dirty rope around their smooth bisque necks, I would be sent into chills by the imagination of doing the same to Lilly, almost feeling her warm pulse flutter beneath my fingers…

Soon, I set up shop there in earnest, furnishing my clearing with more tables and rope. Eventually the cord between the trees was thick with baby doll corpses that I started simply tossing the parts of my used specimens on the ground near the trees. I hoped that the sight and cries of their hanging companions would be enough to keep the other dolls still and silent in their freedom. Plus, the splintering sound when they landed on the clay dirt mimicked the crack and snap of tiny bones.

All alone, such a dangerous thing. I needed more. I needed Lilly.

That’s why I did it. The white hot yearning inside of me couldn’t hold on, just couldn’t. I began to prepare. I read surgeons journals, researched information regarding caesarian sections online, and about all of the delicate details of childbirth, playing with them, balancing them. I read about sanitation, procedures, different blades and tools. I had made due for weeks and weeks with insignificant little dolls, but what I really needed was the tiny, writhing body of my newborn baby sister, Lilly.

The next day—a Thursday, a week before Lilly was due—I spiked Mother’s strawberry banana smoothie with a blend of opiates, for proper sedation.  I held my favorite serrated blade to her throat, until every drop was gone. Horror in her eyes, she screeched over and over, “Why? Why would you do this? Why?” I just smiled, ignoring her hysterics, and caught her fraught, pale form when she started to collapse into a lovely little heap on our kitchen tile floor. 

It was time.

I dragged Mother to my truck, and drove to my work station that I had been preparing for weeks; there was plastic tarp, gloves, jars, and my favorite—a stunning array of freshly cleaned knives, of every size and blade.

All alone, such a dangerous thing.

The sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling Mother’s naked skin in a beautiful, soft glow. The air smelled mossy and green, and I chuckled, knowing the sharp scent of an iron, bloody tang would soon cut the air. I smiled, stroking the skin of her swollen belly, and leisurely dangled my fingers over my silvery display, before choosing a razor sharp scalpel. I raised it, brandished it in sweet victory, giggling. I savored the first thick, red gash in the milky skin and shut out the haunting echoes of the shrill “Why?” that were bouncing around in my head.

I answered what would be my Mother’s last question in a whisper that was swept away in the beautiful day’s warm, perfect breeze.

“Why not?”