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A Form of Chrysalis
Thomas Wilson, a fifteen year old teenager without a conscious leaned into his task, his face drawn tight. He pulled the wings off of a house fly and sent the little insect to the floor to suffer. He watched briefly and turned away toward his bedroom. That bedroom was incomplete, inadequate, and lacking. He entered slowly and sat down on his bed. Deep inside his heart he held that spontaneous feeling of hostility. He always had the need to vent his frustration, and always gave into his blind loss of control.
He looked around his bedroom and didn’t like the quiet, the peace, the tranquility. Nausea set in at the last second, then dizziness, then came the desire to slap something.
He had killed over twenty five neighborhood pets. It was a thrilling release to watch the animals suffer. It helped fuel his murderous rage. The shock to see the suffering was half the thrill. And the other half was complete pleasure, even though he felt alone in his purpose. However, the whole death concept sounded so simple.
Thomas turned to the corner and saw a mouse trapped by the tail in the mouse trap. With cold efficiency he walked over to the rodent and picked it up along with the mouse trap. He lifted the swing rod and slowly removed the rodent allowing the hammer to slam down on his fingers. He allowed himself to be damaged just to feel that twinge of anger he sought. Obsession was a bad thing, dangerous thing, but he relished in it.
It took a few seconds before Thomas realized he was slamming the rodent against the wall, but his face reflected efficiency, not anger. He did not flinch when blood splattered all over him. There was a small part of goodness still breathing in his heart as his mind kept telling him to stop, but apprehension crawled down his arms.
He stopped briefly as anger drained from his face, and that twisted nasty smile took its place. He held the dead mouse in the palm of his hand and that’s when fury roared in his head, and he bit his lip to keep from lashing out. The urge to kill was still rushing through his veins. The death of the rodent wasn’t enough, he needed more.
That small piece of goodness tried to stay with him as it spoke to him with surprise and disgust, but there wasn’t enough to control the hatred. The monster that was growing inside him really never understood compassion and he was tossing hatred around as though he’d founded a new religion.
Thomas heard a cat at his window. Surprised, just thinking about it was thrilling. In his mind he had already started choking the cat and it could have been described as spine-chilling. He could easily have described such a sensation step by step. He slowly opened the window and the cat backed away from him. The ears flattened as it spat at him suddenly. The cat watched to see what Thomas would do next and then it hissed at him, scraped the window sill, and stabbed at his hand with bared claws. Thomas tried to grab the cat by the neck, but the cat quickly moved away and managed to scratch the left side of his cheek. Thomas moved back a little and the cat used that moment of separation to make an escape as it bolted off the window sill and down a drain gutter and disappeared into the lower part of the house.
“Thomas,” his mother called. “Time to see the doctor again, we can’t be late this time, okay?”
If his mother and his doctor were no longer alive he would have the freedom. The art of heart-pumping adventure would no longer be denied to him. He would no longer be frigid, withdrawn and that weird teenager everyone made fun of. He would allow death to follow him dutifully and would make a great deal of people appreciate death. In fact, be active in the art of death, and he would throw off his stoicism and learn how to sneak.
He thought about walking up to his mother first. He could reach out and grab her by the throat. He could squeeze until his fingers popped the skin and crushed the windpipe. It was a sudden bizarre hunger that he would soon make a reality.
Then the doctor was the next to go. It took him only minutes to think about how he would kill the doctor. The doctor’s death would have been slow and efficient, just thinking about it was thrilling. The thrill of causing death radiated through him, and he almost laughed with the sensation…
© 2014 Frank Atanacio