Evil's Interest

× Prologue ×

×  Prologue  ×

    MY MOTHER sniffled away her sobs as she found the remains of the body. Pale anguish—was the words you could use to describe her face—bloodied also. She wrapped her hand around the cold, blue hand that lied on the floor and sobbed quietly so she couldn't alert the neighbors about the cries.

I stood there helpless, wanting to crouch down and hug her and tell her it's okay—but I couldn't. Not because I refuse to, it's because I can't. I can't show sympathy, I can't show any emotion. It'll only hurt my mother if I did try to sympathize, because she knows it's fake.

I'm a person who can't feel anything, as much as I try to cry, as much as I hurt myself, reject people, try to want, try to feel love. I can't.

As doctors would say, I'm very blunt, detached, stoic, and maybe a little bit of sociopathic.

The last time I felt something was when I was eight. I had a rage fit, harmed myself, broke everything, my mother was frightened, and so was my father. Two days later, my father left us. He told my mother he couldn't have a psycho child, packed and left. Ever since that day, she's held a grudge against me.

I cried for a week non-stop, until an emotionless tidal wave passed over me and I stopped—I stopped feeling. My hands used to shake with every sob that escaped me and my heart sped up every time I heard a knock on the front door; hoping it was my father.
My mother hated it, she basically—hated me. She wanted me to feel something; regret, remorse, self-hate.

I personally used to think this was great—but it's not. And it will never be.

Standing up firmly again, my mother put the body in a bag, not caring if she got blood everywhere.

She let out a sob again, and zipped up the bag. Tomorrow we start a new life. A new school, a new house.

Just fucking great.

My mother rushed to her room, quickly taking out a suitcase and throwing everything she sees in it. I stood at the mess of blood, my hands shook, dry blood flakes fall off. I rush to the bathroom to wash my hands.

Looking in the mirror, I saw a girl, as pale as snow, hair black as night, and lips as red a blood—now don't get me wrong, I am not Snow White, quite the opposite actually.

Rushing to my room, I start packing. Shoving toiletries in my small bag, I see a framed picture of my mom, my dad, my brother, and I.

What have I caused?

Sometimes I wonder, would it be different if my father hadn't left our family? Would I feel emotions? Where would I be now?

In supposedly anger, I threw the picture at the wall with force and pulled at my hair. I'm sorry father, I'm sorry I was such a big mistake to deal with.

My hands shook and I let go of my hair. What? Was that real?

Shaking these thoughts out of my head, I picked up the shards of glass, pricking my finger in the process. If I weren't watching what my hands touched I wouldn't  have noticed the blood. Or the prick.

I watched it the blood dripped down my finger, glistening in the dim light.

A tear drop fell on my finger and mixed with my blood. Though I felt no sadness, I'm at least grateful that I could at least show it. Even if I didn't mean it.

Mother grunted from the hall. I peeked out to see that she's dragging the body to the basement.

What once was a family of four, is now a family of two. My mother and I. And the emotions I've wanted to battle, but can't.

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Thanks for reading! I know its short but it's just a prologue >:)

Anyway, hope you enjoyed. Cause idk what to think of this? Feedback?

Comment if you feel like it

× ȏ × ȏ × - jellypoppa