𝐌𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥

𝟑 || 'Dark Canvas'

" all extremes of feeling are allied with madness "
Virginia Woolf
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𝐈'𝐕𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 understood the concept of fitting in. Especially in a corrupt society such as ours, where expectation is constantly being shifted and changed, twisted and stretched as if making pizza dough.

I've learned earlier on in my life that I don't- won't ever fit into the normalised narrative in which we call society. Because deep inside me lurks a cold-blooded, heartless, unforgiving sadistic serial killer, with fucked up fetishes and desires that claw and demand to be appeased. Most normal individuals would instantly label it as a mental disorder. I prefer to label my fucked up state as a picky choice of preference. And as fucked up as it sounds, I've never been afraid to show people what I am, who I am.

I don't hide. I hunt.

I kill. I take, and I devour.

Nothing can change that.

I guess it's fortunate enough to say that I had been born into a world which allowed me to satisfy my beasts constant hunger. It gets ugly for sure but it keeps them entertained, filled. However, that doesn't mean that I'm on low impulse control over it, I've learnt how to chase the hunger away, how to keep it sedated when I find myself in a situation that doesn't require its tendencies, it's a risk and danger to those around me, but it comes with the price of being El Jefe of the Mexican Mafia, which doesn't only require my demented violent tendencies, but also my intelligence, competence and endeavor to help us rise.

That and I'm certainly not allowing a mere compulsion, or 'fixation' to rob control over my own life.

I am in control.

And it's going to stay that way until my own death.

I say that as I rob control over someone else's life, as if it were my job and not the man above's.

Crimson red coats my hands, fingers and rings in layers, rolling down my fingertips and dropping to the ground in little droplets as if water. My knuckles are severely busted, split and adding my own gore to the mix of another, it's numb due to the number of times I've cracked the jaw of my enemy who sits defeated with his head facing downwards. He's unconscious. And I hate it.

I find excitement in the pain of others, enjoying their pleas, cries and screams of agony. It fills me with joy to see someone experiencing my wrath, it's a thirst quencher for the beast within me who's always there. Waiting. Calculating. Plotting.

Not allowing a second longer to be wasted, I grab an iced filled, water bucket and dump it onto the head of the little shit below me. He jolts back to life in a matter of seconds, his screams echoing through the room from the pain of icicles and cuts integrating. His blue eyes snap up to meet my dark swirl of grey, the pure, delicious and raw fear that I've lived all my life feeding off, radiating from him.