I dropped the piece of wood beside him, picked up an arm and pulled it towards my mouth. I could feel him resist a little and that’s when I knew there was still a little life left in him. I put my teeth against the flesh of his forearm, paused for a moment, then bit. He tried to pull away a little, but there wasn’t enough strength left in him. I bit down harder and harder, feeling the hot blood fill my mouth and run down my chin.
I felt my teeth come together and pulled his arm away from my mouth, as if I was chewing on a drumstick. There was a deep, gurgled sound coming from Royce, from somewhere deep inside his chest. I think it was a scream, but I’m not sure. What I can tell you, and a little ashamedly, was that I became aware of my erection at that point.
It was the taste of his blood that brought it on, and the more I chewed, the harder it got. I continued to bite chunks of flesh from his arm, feeling the throbbing in my pants grow stronger and stronger.
I finally bent down, put my lips on his throat and felt the irregular pulsing beneath. I felt him jerk a little as my teeth sank in and then relax as a heat not only washed over my face, but also inside my pants. It was the first time that I truly realized what I was.
3.
If you think that I just had some kind of homosexual moment, then I’m sorry to say that you’re mistaken. Although the thought had crossed my own mind at the time, I soon realized that it was the blood that did it for me. It was the warmth of it, the taste of it. Feeling that heat in my mouth was incredible. I don’t know how or why, but as I buried that fucker in the hole I’d dug, I knew that Royce wouldn’t be the last. Not by a long shot. I needed to taste that heat again, and I didn’t care how.
4.
It was almost dark by the time I returned home. My father was sitting at the kitchen table, an open bottle of suds before him. I walked in through the back door and just stood there, waiting for the questions to start. But there were none; not then, not ever.
After standing there for at least a full minute, my father suddenly looked up at me.
“Get upstairs and wash up. Then make us some dinner. There’s some rabbit in the fridge.” I stared at him for a brief second, but his attention was back on the bottle sitting before him. He took a swig as I walked up the stairs, the confusion of that day never leaving me.
5.
I don’t know what the hell was wrong with him, but my father was a strange creature. More often than not, he would be this cold and callous arsehole that would hit me, throw shit at me or just yell abuse in my direction. But there were a few times where he would show a small hint of his relationship to me.
It wasn’t often that he did nice things, but when he did, I remembered each of them. Sometimes, what would start out as a nice thing, quickly turned into a painful experience for me, my father luring me into a false sense of security.
That’s what happened the day I met Loui. More about him in a moment. That day, my father seemed to acknowledge his wrongdoing for a beating he’d dished out to me the night before. I don’t even know what the hell I did wrong, other than to serve him his dinner. I’d made beans, not one of my best attempts, but it was food and I was hungry.
When I handed him the bowl, sitting in his lounge chair, he took a look at the steaming pile, looked up at me, then knocked the bowl flying from my fingers. In the brief moment before his fist smashed into my mouth, I remember thinking how he hadn’t been drinking at all that day.
What I do know, is that the day had been a strange one, because it was the anniversary of my mother’s death. She had been dead 8 years by then, just a distant memory that began to fade from my mind with each passing day. This prick had robbed me of her, had taken her from my life and given me nothing but pain in return.
It was also my 14th birthday and I think the combination of the 2 things had affected him. Of course, there was no acknowledgement for the birthday; there never was. It was his complete denial of everything that used to anger me the most. He was a sadistic fuck that didn’t care about anything.
As his fist mashed my lip, he rose out of the chair as fast as a jack rabbit, followed me as I flew against the wall and hit me again. He didn’t utter a single word, just continuing to hit me. I tried to protect myself as best I could but there was not a lot I could do. I was just a skinny kid and he was a lot bigger than me.
After he’d had his fill of abuse, he returned to the chair and just sat there, staring into the fireplace. I painfully picked myself up and stood staring at him for a moment. I wanted him dead. I wanted to smash his head open the way I did Royce Packard. I wanted to rip his fucking heart out and show it to him before he died.
But there would be no killing that day and I painfully made my way up the stairs, closing the door behind me as I went to my room. That night was one of the few times I cried. I cried for my mum, missing her
