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20
LANDON
Contrary to common belief, primarily told by my haters and those who had the misfortune of being collateral damage to my chaos-thirsty soul, I’m not a beast.
I know, I know. It’s hard to believe that notion, considering my anarchy plots that could and would bring Satan’s edgy worshipers to tears.
My beast is different from the general consensus most people have about me, my ex-therapists included.
It’s not me. It’s part of me.
My beast has been hooked to my bones from the moment I was conceived by my parents. Pretty sure my and Bran’s beast got split and I received the louder one. His can be easily kept in chains. Mine would kill me before I were to attempt such blasphemy.
This may shock the antisocial disorder police, but I actually don’t relish hurting people for the fuck of it—though everyone, my family and friends included, would tell you otherwise.
Truth is, the individuals I hurt just happened to be in my path.
I don’t react well to obstacles. The moment I see one, I come up with a hundred and one solutions to eliminate it, and because I need anarchy, I usually go for the most difficult resolution that will cause the most damage just so I’ll feel somewhat accomplished.
Real.
Alive.
I also take immense pleasure in bringing others to their knees in front of me. It’s an addictive power that I need to satiate as much as my need for chaos.
My beast is easygoing. All I have to do is offer him some violence, anarchy, and possible blood and he’ll be golden, lounging around like a lion in his cave.
My beast is also quite pragmatic. Deep down in his black soul, he wants to murder à la serial killer style and look into people's eyes as they turn lifeless. He wants the power of holding other people’s existence in the palm of his hand like their custom-made god.
He ranks high on emotion and catastrophe control and would be a perfect candidate for a wanted murderer—famous but would never be caught.
However, that thought never has and never will come to fruition for a very simple reason. A moment of gratification isn’t worth the damage that could be inflicted throughout my lifetime in the 0.01 percent chance I’m caught.
Imagine—me behind bars? The blasphemy.
And yet right now, my beast is far from being rational, peaceful, or relaxed. I’ve been standing here for the past…fuck knows how long. An hour? Three? Five? It’s probably close to dawn and I haven’t been able to sleep a wink.
I sculpted a stroke of genius, then shoved it at the back of the other statues with the canvas that has Mia’s blood all over it.
Virginal blood.
Summoning Satan using that is a tempting idea, but I’m opting for something a lot more devilish.
Something that defies reality and puts everything I’ve done thus far to shame.
I light a cigarette and exhale a cloud of smoke under the shadows of early morning slipping through the window whose cracks I filled with clay after Mia was shivering a few weeks ago.
Sucking on my cigarette, I stroll to where Mia lies on the sofa, her small body wrapped in my shirt.
Onlymyshirt.
It’s become a habit now. Even when her dress is intact, she also puts on my clothes before she falls into slumber.
The fabric rides up her pale thighs, revealing my fading marks and the fresh ones I added today. Earlier, her inner thighs were smudged with proof of her innocence, but I smeared every drop on the canvas and licked the rest clean.
I needed to devour the evidence even when she looked mortified by the attention. I licked and nibbled on her soft core, then sucked on her thighs, stomach, and mound. Everywhere I could leave a hickey of ownership.
The whole time, she watched me with a bizarre fascination bordering on both lust and confusion.
