Knife's Property

T H R E E

Last year update for another week, next update will be next Monday :)

Knife's P.O.V.

I was twelve years old when I first killed someone. It was my father.

It was his own fault really; he knew I liked cleanliness and order and instead of respecting my wishes he walked into the house with his filthy fucking shoes on and came into my room. As he stepped into my room, his shit covered shoe left a mark on my fucking carpet. He was talking about trivial nonsense, something about the black eye I had given someone in my class for touching my pencils.

"Your shoes are dirty." I interrupted him, talking over his bullshit about it being wrong to hit someone over a pencil. He could chastise me all he wanted but Ronan was never going to touch anything of mine again. He knew the consequences and he knew no one would step in and help him, not even the teachers.

He blinked dumbly at me. God, I fucking hated when they did that. Just stared at you with a blank face as if the basic sentence you said is too hard to understand.

He finally gathered enough braincells to understand what I had said and sighed.

"That is not the issue here, Calvin." My eye twitched at his tone, he was talking to me as if I was the imbecile. As if not wanting dog shit tracked through my room was stupid. He continued on. "The issue here is that you solved a simple issue with violence. Rather than politely telling Ronan that he shouldn't touch your pencils, you attacked him. He's only twelve years old."

"I'm only twelve years old." I pointed out. "I didn't know what I was doing."

He sighed again; his face wary. While my father would never admit it, he knew I was dangerous, and that the danger would only continue to get worse with age. I welcomed it.

"We'll continue this later; I need to have a shower."

I stared at the messy footprints when he left. I could feel the anger in me, feel the fire slowly burning through my veins, I could practically see my skin glowing as the lick of the flames enticed me. It's one thing to wear dirty shoes into the house, but a whole other to wear them into my room.

Gritting my teeth, my hand wrapped around the cool blade in my desk drawer. I would need to use the element of surprise; my father was taller than me and unfortunately wasn't a weak man. I didn't mind that though, he would be dead in the next ten minutes anyways.

I walked silently to his room, avoiding the creaking floorboards. My father was dirt rich, rich enough to afford a house 20 times this size, but he refused. He wanted us to have a normal life, free of material things. I bit back a scoff.

Fucking idiot.

He didn't hear me or see me as he stripped down in the bathroom, his dirty shoes in the doorway. My lip curled up, the sight of them alone brought the rage back tenfold. It added fuel to growing fire in me.

I lifted my hand and stabbed him in the neck. The choked sound he made was beautiful, I could listen to it all day if I could. His hand went to the wound to cover it as he spun to face the intruder. The look of horror on his face when his light brown eyes connected with my dark ones had me fighting back a groan of pleasure.

Before he could react, I was stabbing him again and again. And again. Blood splattered everywhere, on the walls, on the floor, on my clothes. And I didn't mind it one fucking bit. I hacked away at him, stabbing him to shreds long after he was dead.

The feeling was blissful, I swore I would never feel as elated again.

However, I was wrong.

The moment I locked eyes on her, that feeling was there. This time thought, it was dripping with possessiveness and obsession.