His Other Face

His Origin

They found me screaming in a pool of child's blood. Eyewitnesses report that I was tearing my hair out, beating the floor, crying and screaming in agony. Those images flashed past my eyes but the only thing I could remember was the indescribable feeling of waking up with a half eaten head in my lap. The police questioned me ruthlessly but all I said was that I fell into the corpse and no one could prove otherwise. There were no witnesses when He tore it to shreds. All the witnesses saw was my crying in a pool of blood. They showed a little mercy after taking into account my psychotic, traumatised state, my feral wide eyes and my untamed, ripped hair. I was referred to a psychotherapist  straight after the interview, they didn't even give me time to recollect my shattered self. They led me to a room where the therapist worked. He tried his best to be soothing and console me but all for naught. All he did was make things worse. He made me fully comprehend what I had done. He would just not shut up about the dead, eaten child.

"It's Ok," he said
"It wasn't you that murdered the child, you didn't eat her so it's fine"

"It was me, I killed her. I ate her."

I curled up into a sphere of solitude and started to cry as the memories of Him flooded my sleeping mind.

I created him. He's a detachment of my own tormented mind. He's all my deepest and darkest emotions that created their own personality out of pure hatred and disgust. As a child, he didn't exist but my life was still far from normal. I remember my years before I created Him. I was barely out of my toddler days. A charismatic, well liked person at school who flitted by without a care in the world. Of course it wasn't how it seemed on the surface. Home was the issue. Home was where she was. My mother. My despicable, abusive mother. The one who took me in after a divorce so she could receive child support payments.The one who refused to make me edible meals and attacked me for every little mistake. The one who would punch and kick me for not doing homework because I was too busy cooking a scarcely substantial meal and preparing my clothes for the next day at school. I was a disgrace she said. Good grades? They mean nothing she said. I was just a source of money. Something to vent rage onto. Something to blame when she couldn't keep her steady supply of alcohol stocked. It all ended when I was aged 7.

She had just finished another session of assaulting me for burning some rice. I took it and didn't dare say a thing like always because I knew it would make things worse. That all changed when she picked up a frying pan and slammed it into my stomach, leaving me helplessly breathless on the filthy kitchen floor. Something inside me snapped. Nothing but rage, violence and hatred filled my mind. It gave me the adrenaline rush I needed to stand and draw a knife and pick up the pan. I stormed out of the kitchen with bloodthirsty determination to find her passed out, dead drunk on the sofa.

"This ends here..."

(Part 3 coming sooooon)