Red as Blood, Black as Death

Chapter 1: Psychopaths are born, not made

Chapter 1: Psychopaths are born, not made

So when did everything start?  It was probably when Sigmund was born with a terrible, twisted personality.  And a sick mind.   He would have been the son his parents would throw out in disgust (and they would, eventually).  They would not have been able to believe that they gave birth to someone like Sigmund.  

Some people say that there is good and hope for every person, but they lead sheltered lives.  The truth is that for no reason, people like Sigmund are born.  There was no depressing and miserable backstory that explained his incredibly wicked actions.   But even a rose scented stardust sprinkled environment couldn’t beat those murky tendencies out of him.

 Nobody wanted to believe that the world just chose to give life to an evil child.

There was nothing wrong with Sigmund when he was born.  He looked normal, wide-eyed and hairless, as a baby.  Perhaps the only thing that was wrong with him was that his giggles were not quite happy and his smiles were not quite energetic.  But that could always be attributed to a baby’s perpetual need for sleep.

Now, what made Sigmund a stain on society?  For one thing, he was a sadistic, maniacal, psychopath who had a fascination with blood, death, and dismemberment.  The moment he discovered these three things, he was enthralled with them.  For him, nothing could ever surpass those three things, interconnected in his cycle of personal decadence.  Society usually rejects people like Sigmund.  That’s what police are for.

Sigmund’s first conscious discovery of these three things was at the precious age of three years old.  He was a dark haired boy who always watched his parents with intelligent dark eyes.  He had been sitting on the balcony of the apartment, looking at the bird that was perched on the railing.  It looked back and ruffled its gray feathers.  Sigmund reached out a chubby hand, but of course it was too short to reach the top of the railing.  He put his hand back down and set it on the concrete of the balcony.  He looked at it carefully, as if meaning no intent other than curiosity.  

The bird fluttered down, still a ways away from him.  It lowered itself to the ground and made itself comfortable.  Inquisitively, it looked at Sigmund with bright beady eyes.  Sigmund slowly leaned to his left so he could get closer to the bird, but it flew back to the railing.  He retracted to his original position.  He stood up and tried to reach the top of the bars.  He still was not tall enough.  

Sigmund was quite the clever baby.  He picked up a dirt encrusted spade that his mother used to tend to the flower pots with.  His arm shaking, he lifted it up towards the bird.  It brushed lightly against its feathers, and the bird hopped back down onto the balcony.  Sigmund released the gardening implement and it clattered to the ground.  The bird flew, shrieking and chirping wildly, but in its panic it flew not away from Sigmund but towards him.

Unfortunately for the bird, it flew right into the child’s range.  He had picked up again the spade that had fallen and wielded it, effectively extending his range.  The bird might’ve made it out if it wasn’t for that spade.  It was quite the cutting weapon, one that even a three year old could use to inflict pain on the soft body of a small bird. 

The bird did not sense the imminent danger as the tip of the spade approached it.  All it sensed was the shadow of the spade as it quivered while descending upon the bird.  

Sigmund’s curiosity was no longer simply curiosity.  It had surpassed the state of passing interest, into one more of desire.  Desire to cut. Desire to hurt.  He had already experienced euphoria when the bird started struggling in his grasp.  The helpless attempts of a weaker being excited him.  He had already seen the concept of cutting in action, watching his mother slice vegetables.  Why not apply it to the bird he was in possession of?   Spades could be mistaken for knives at a very far distance. Sigmund proceeded to aim the spade at the bird’s vulnerable body.

He was not particular aiming for it, but the spade cut the bird’s wing.  It was neat cut, cleanly severing the wing from the body. As expected, blood began to pour out from the wound.  Sigmund released his grip on the bird, which was now trying to get away from this torturer.  Its unnecessary movement only increased the rate at which blood poured out of its wound.  But fear of Sigmund drove it to continue with its futile, one-winged flapping.  In less than a minute, it hopped to the edge of the balcony, where it collapsed on the ground.  Its body had landed unmoving on the stump where its wing used to be.

Sigmund picked up its severed wing and was now examining it carefully.  He gently brushed the feathers and felt the fragile bones.  The primary feathers splayed out.  The blood dripped from the wing to his hand down to his arms, like sweat streaming down an athlete’s face.  It enchanted him.  To waste the very thing that sustained life was perhaps to him, the ultimate concept.  It brought him the same happiness as an ordinary toddler would feel when he received a new toy.  And blood, in a sense was his toy.  

Then he smiled.  It was his first smile, at least the first sincere one, not one of the ones his parents forced him to make when they took pictures.  He smiled at the portentous first stains of blood marking his hands that were a prelude for the years to come.

Psychopaths are born, not made.