Things hadn't changed much since my family had had the blood sucked out of their bodies. Then again, it was I who had planned it. Ever since I had drawn my first breath, I knew what my destiny was. To suck the life out of my family. I was a solitary child, as my parents often told their friends and neighbors. "She always keeps to herself," they said, "She's a smart child though, we're proud of our daughter." Pride was a word like a pawn in a chess game when it came to parents using it, always put into the position needed to enable the true will of the more powerful pieces and soon they'll have access to the entire board. I doubt my parents ever were proud of me, and now that I think about it, I didn't really care.
Throughout most of my childhood I spent playing by myself, and going outdoors whenever I could. Ever since I could crawl, the outside world beckoned to me, like a hopeful parent, egging on their small child to "come to mommy". I near a large woody area, my backyard ended at a dark forest, where I spent most of my free time. I would climb the trees, smell the air, and, my favorite activity, look for small animals. Even the tiniest insect excited my interest, and I would devise interesting ways to extinguish it's tiny flame of a life. I would bring jars of honey and drown flies, pour salt over slugs and snails, and slowly and methodically, rip the legs off of beetles and spiders. But of course, I did all of this in secret. For I was a solitary child, never talking out of turn or too much. Nobody knew of my joy in killing these little creatures. Then, one day when I was eight, I found the squirrel.
I had been doing my usual scouring for bugs to play with, when I suddenly stumbled upon a squirrel on the ground, it's neck and forelegs tangled in some sort of wire. It thrashed wildly, eyes bulging in panic, making little squeaks of fear, as it struggled against it's unyielding bonds. Having been startled by the sight of this furry creature, I had grabbed a nearby stick. Now using this as a tool, I poked the squirrel in the side, just below it's ribs. It squeaked in panic again, the pitch in it's exclamation now reaching an even more desperate level. I moved in closer, and slowly extended my hand, until it hovered just above the squirrel. It began to choke on the wire then, little gasps of breath escaped it's tiny maw, as it clawed desperately at it's throat.
Tentatively, I picked it up. Turning it over several times in my hand, before I extended my hand and grasped it's fore-paw. The rodent, didn't move, it's muscles were tensed in a sort of panicked trance, as I continue to look it over. Growing curious, I began to pull it's fore-paw, harder and harder, until the panicked squeaks turned into screams, and to my surprise and clear delight it's paw came right off. Blood squirted out of the socket where before a limb had been firmly attached. It panted in it's squeaky voice, little gasps of breath escaping it's tiny, delicate throat as it continued to choke and struggle. Then an idea came to mind.
I took out the small pen knife I had gotten for my last birthday from my father, and began to slowly skin the creature. Almost as if I were shaving it, I cut off little bits of fur, the quivering muscles below it gleaming in the sunlight. Occasionally, the odd squirt of blood came out, but that would distract me for a moment. Until, by sheer luck on my part, a little of the creature's blood came to rest on my tongue, instinctively I swallowed, and then smiled. It tasted wonderful! I wanted more! I looked down at my prey, and then stabbed the knife into the middle of the creature's stomach. Blood began to squirt out at an even higher pace, and I held the creature up above my open mouth. The crimson liquird pour into my gaping jaw, and I drank my fill until I could no longer stand the taste of iron in my mouth, I threw the now slightly shriveled corpse of the squirrel away, and sighed in content.
Later that night when I got home, my parents were thrown into a panic at the sight of me. Blood stains were around my lips and on the front of my clothing. At firs they thought I was hurt, but when they saw no sign of injury, their imaginations ran wild with what the stains could possibly be, and eventually, their guess was right. That night in bed, I heard them arguing, loudly discussing what was wrong with me, what had they done wrong, whose fault it was, and what was to be done. I feel asleep to the sound of sobs and cries of anguish, but what should I care? I was happy.
