The first human sacrifice had given me goosebumps, a thrilling chill that coursed through my veins as if darkness itself were embracing me. And in that embrace, I found delight. My hypothesis held true: human flesh was indeed the ultimate offering. But if the sacrifice of a mere street dweller felt this potent, what about those born into privilege, those who had feasted on the highest quality of life? The thought was a venomous seed, slowly germinating into a meticulous plan.
I secured a job as a cleaner in a sprawling mansion, an innocuous entry point into their opulent world. But the moment I stepped inside, I witnessed something far more spectacular, far more devastatingly perfect than I could have imagined. My mother. And beside her, a child, barely five years old.
Her eyes, at first, registered a flicker of something akin to happiness when she saw me. But then, her gaze dropped to my cleaner's uniform, and her expression curdled into one of profound disdain. Did I care? No. But the child clinging to her hand… I wondered what would happen if I killed her.
Lost in this dark reverie, I was snapped back to reality by the boss's call. I began my duties, but a cold realization soon dawned: this was her mansion, my mother's new gilded cage. And with my new job, I had access. Access to her home. To her life. I needed a key, and I didn't ask for it. I killed the guard, a quick, efficient dispatch, and took it.
You might ask how I wasn't caught. The answer is simple: I cooked him. I even shared portions of his flesh with my unsuspecting coworkers, a macabre jest they savored without knowledge. It was a waste of a good sacrifice, in a way, as I didn't have the time to perform the full ritual, but I needed to eliminate the evidence swiftly.
Later, I slipped into my mother's home. The child she had held earlier was there, playing in the living room. She didn't even have time to scream. A swift, silent stab, and I carried her small, lifeless form outside, depositing her in a nearby, forgotten ditch. But I didn't leave. I waited.
I waited for my mother to return, to discover her missing daughter. I watched, hidden within the shadows of her own home, as her initial panic morphed into frantic despair. Slowly, methodically, I began to leave clues, tiny breadcrumbs of horror, ensuring she would suffer within the very walls that had once sheltered her. I watched her make countless, desperate calls to the police, her voice cracking with escalating terror. And all the while, she remained oblivious. Unaware that her daughter was long gone, a decaying corpse, days old, a testament to the hatred festering within me, while I, her son, lurked in the very heart of her misery.