Fucked up phanfics

The Mincemeat Fic

Chapter 8 (last one)

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This time was harder. For the second time that day, he stepped through the doorway of his family's home. Of course the first time had been easier. He'd had nothing to be concerned about.
The trouble was, his fear was probably detectable from his body language, and the fear of his fear being discovered added to his fear. He had to tell himself that there was no reason to be worried.
Other than the time he had given some of Phil's flesh to his grandmother, this was the first time he was actually willingly letting other people come into contact with human meat. Atleast it seemed as though it had kept well on the journey.
As Dan unzipped his bag and began to remove his things, it suddenly dawned on him that, now, there was no reason for him to return back to Phil's house. He grew extremely paranoid then, asking himself over and over if he had cleaned those plates enough and taken every single scrap with him.
Then he suddenly remembered something else.
What was he going to do about Phil's disappearance? Everyone still thought that Phil was just at home and that everything was fine, but obviously that wasn't what his parents would discover when they returned home. They were most likely very worried on the basis of the text messages that Dan had been sending them via Phil's phone, thinking he'd been kidnapped or something.
Dan had to build on this story somehow. He knew most of the passwords to Phil's social media, so maybe posting would provide further "evidence" that he was alive.

Dan's family seemed very happy to see him, and once again, he giggled internally at their obliviousness to his terrible behaviour.
"Please don't touch this food," he said to his mother. "Grandma said she wanted me to have it."
She looked at him, confused. "There's more than enough for you, Dan. Surely she'd want you to share it."
"It'll keep for ages," Dan protested. "Please leave it alone."
She sighed. "If you insist." Then she added, "If you're fed up of sharing food, you should move out."
"You want to get rid of me?" Dan asked, but then realised that wasn't such a bad idea after all. The isolation would get to him - especially now his best friend was gone - but he'd get used to it eventually, and the best part about it was the fact that he'd be able to fulfil his desires as much as he wanted. He was an independent young man and would do well alone.
He imagined it now. He imagined meeting new friends and inviting them over to his house... and then that would be the end of them. He'd spike their drinks. He'd knock them out. He'd let them stay the night and then kill them in their sleep, and he'd have enough food to last ages.
And it wasn't all about the sustenance and the beautiful flavour. It was the thrill of killing, of holding the power to take the life of another member of his kind. Every human had the capacity to kill, but certainly not everyone wanted to or even dared to. Dan lacked those restrictions. He felt no guilt, no fear, no shame in his behaviour. At first he hadn't been able to figure out if he felt guilty or not, but that wishy-washiness was long gone.
As he got a little too carried away with his fantasies, he began to wonder if he was a psychopath. Even as a child, Dan had felt no remorse after hurting others, and not an ounce of empathy. There had been times where his mind was going back and forth - especially not long after he'd killed Phil - but for the most part, he was empty inside.

His family was all sat around the dinner table. Dan had decided to share some of the mince eventually. He sat there eating silently as he listened to them talking amongst themselves.
"It's very good, Dan," his father said, suddenly turning to him. "Did you make this all by yourself?"
Dan nodded, smiling. "I did."
"Best spaghetti bolognese I've ever had," he said.
Dan had to physically force himself not to smile like a maniac. It was hard not to laugh violently when he saw his unsuspecting family eating human meat and enjoying it, just like the customers of his grandmother's shop.
Another text had been sent to Phil's phone. He'd been holding on to the phone, making sure no one else knew he was in possession of it. The message was from Phil's parents, yet again asking where he was and if he was okay. They seemed panicked.
Wanting to keep everything a secret from his own family, Dan suddenly got up from the table and rushed out of the room, ignoring everyone's confusion as to where he was going. He went up to his bedroom just as his phone received a call. He declined it just in time. That was close, he thought.

Don't call me, he texted them.

When they gave a confused response, he replied:

I'm not Phil, so don't bother asking me about him.

Then he changed his mind and rushed back downstairs.This is it, he thought. If I want to be independent and live how I want, I'm gonna have to start here.
He slipped into the kitchen, holding the stained knife that he'd used to kill and dismember Phil.
It was easy. No thought, no regret, no contemplation. Just pure, hard and fast killing and bloodshed. His younger brother almost got away, but he wasn't quick enough, and soon he too was on the floor, the blood quickly pooling out from below his body. It all happened so fast, in a kind of blur, and Dan couldn't even remember any screaming.
Of course, the shock had been there. The wide eyes, the gasping, the crying as soon as the knife was plunged into the soft, warm flesh, and pulled back out to allow the blood to flow and pour onto the floor. But Dan barely remembered any of the screams.
He dropped the knife and crouched down beside his dead mother, lapping up the blood on the floor like a ravenous dog. Then he took the mobile phone out of his pocket and sent another text.

Phil is gone.

With it, he sent the photo that he had taken when he was cutting and dismembering Phil's body. It was a picture of him laying on the floor, his entrails exposed and trailing down beside him. Then he sent another photo of the foot that he had kept in the freezer, along with the body parts he had cooked and roasted.
And with that, he tossed the phone aside. Like a beast that couldn't be tamed, he knelt down beside his dead family and began to dig his teeth into their still-warm flesh, tearing it off into his mouth and then chewing and swallowing. Fresh, he thought. Perfect.

He had independence now.
Of course, this independence was short lived. Dan Howell was destined to spend the rest of his life locked away in a heavily guarded cell, away from the rest of society, alone. Isolated and despised. But until that time of justice came, he began his rampage upon those around him, slitting their throats, sawing off their heads, stabbing their hearts and using the remains as his primary source of nutrition. He felt unstoppable. Dan became addicted to killing, and even if he didn't feast on their bodies, he still got the beautiful rush that he always experienced from ending the life of another - whether it be the sight of the blood, the protesting, or the cries for help - it got more and more thrilling each time.
He had started with his best friend, moved onto his family, and now he was terrorising everyone around him.

Not mine. What a nice story that was.