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I was always trying to find acceptable outlets for my violent urges. I got into martial arts and boxing and fencing when I was seven, but my parents seemed to worry that I was a little too eager. After I “accidentally” hurt my opponents a few times, my father stopped letting me spar with people my age and practiced with me.
The message was clear. My parents didn’t want me to cause harm to people. But I was clever and cruel, and I learned early on that I didn’t have to use my fists or weapons to hurt people.
Like Remy, a fat little bastard in my sister’s grade. I ruined him, and to this day, it makes me smile to think of it.
What was his sin?
When I was eight, he made the mistake of crossing me. My older sister Emilie hadCours moyen première année,the equivalent of fourth grade in America, with Remy. I was a year behind her inCours élémentaire deuxième annéeand had recess at a different time, so when I wasn’t there to defend her he bullied her.
I’d get my revenge.
I convinced Emilie to invite him over to play. She knew from the look in my eyes that I was up to something, but she didn’t try to stop me. Emilie was a little bit like me, and her secret smile proved it.
While playing outside in the garden, Remy pushed Emilie down and she scraped her knees on the pavers. She fell with a cry, and when she staggered to her feet, beads of blood dotted her knees. Remy gave her the finger and made a farting raspberry noise as Emilie struggled to hold back tears. The fucker ran and hid behind his mother, who was sitting with my mother drinking coffee.Coward.
I walked up to them and smiled, turning toward him so that only he could see the special smile reserved for him. The one that opened the windows into my poisoned soul. It promised pain. He screamed and wet himself with terror.
When his mother asked him what was wrong, he just cried and said, “Bastien smiled at me! He won’t stop smiling!”
His mother swatted at the air and snapped, “What are you talking about? Don’t be such a baby.” When he continued to cry, she bit out, “You’re embarrassing me.”
He never came to our house again. He wouldn’t even look at my sister on the playground.
That wasn’t enough for me, though.
I started a campaign of terror against him at school. It was easy. I had a group of friends—or boys who were in awe of me, even back then—eager to do my bidding. I didn’t feel close to them. There was a coldness in my heart that didn’t let me get truly chummy to anyone outside of my family. But the boys at school followed me like a pack of wolves followed their alpha.
My friends and I would hide behind doors and leap out, making him scream. We’d gang up on him in the bathroom and force rotten food down his throat. It always made him vomit. We’d dump water on his crotch to make it look like he’d pissed himself. He was a large boy, and he outweighed every one of us individually, but I knew tricks, knew how to hurt people who were bigger and stronger, and I taught them to my friends.
We never left bruises.
When he told on us, we denied it so convincingly that we didn’t get in trouble. We were sickeningly polite and respectful to our teachers. I taught my friends the subtle art of manipulation, too. I insisted that anyone who wanted to be friends with me behave with enormous respect to anyone in authority and get excellent grades. It was how we flew under the radar.
My friends’ parents loved me. They called me a “little gentleman.” They didn’t know our behavior was just a cover, and that we chose people to torture in secret. Like Remy.
By the end of the year, Remy had a nervous breakdown and had to leave school. My mother mentioned it to me, and I shrugged. “I didn’t like him,” I said honestly. “He picked on Emilie.”
“Oh, that’s just what boys do when they like girls,” she told me breezily. “Pull their pigtails, push them over, tease them.”
“They do?” I found that fascinating, but the kind of images it called up in my mind were dirty and dangerous. “Did Papa do that to you when you first met?”
She got a funny look on her face. “Something like that.”
It was hard to imagine my father pulling my mother’s pigtails. He treated her like a queen, and heaven help anyone who did otherwise. He was not normally a violent man, but this air of menace clung to him like smoke, and once when a man shouted something crude at my mother in the street, my father grabbed him and bent his arm behind his back until the man shrieked like a little girl.
I thought about what my mother had said for years. I thought about things that I might like to do to girls.
The girls at school were fascinated with me, so I started experimenting with them a little bit. I made one girl cut off all her hair. I made another girl only wear red underwear because red was my favorite color.
As I got older, I stepped up my game a little. I made a girl crawl across an empty classroom on her hands and knees during lunch hour. I would put her sandwich on the chair between my legs and make her kneel while she ate it.
But I knew I needed more.
Like all boys, I had access to internet porn on occasion, and as I grew up, I learned what BDSM was. It fascinated and disturbed me. I wasn’t upset by the dark intermingling of sexuality and pain; I was upset because I knew that even the BDSM lifestyle wouldn’t be enough for me. I didn’t want consent. I wanted real fear and pain.
But for the sake of my parents, I stuffed my worst urges inside me and let them fester. If I hadn’t, a number of my classmates and at least a few of my teachers would have been the subjects of my experiments. I would have found a quiet place to tie them down and gag them. I would’ve learned my anatomy lessons on their suffering flesh.
When I was twelve, we got a new student. Her name was Camille Manning. She was American.
