Page 326 of Rage

Malevolence

By: Sarah Daniels

Prologue

Tara

(10 Years Ago - 11 Years Old)

Intestines…liver…kidneys… I think?

The cool, spring Nebraska breeze gave me a slight chill as the sun reflected off of the knife in my hand.

“Tara! Oh my god, what are you doing?!” my foster mother shrieked, forcing me to stop trying to figure out which organs these were in the dead bird I had laying on the ground in front of me. The tip of the paring knife I was holding hovered over what I assumed was this bird’s stomach.

“It’s just a pigeon, Megan,” I replied indifferently, refocusing on the bird with its belly sliced open in front of my crossed legs in the grass of our front yard.

“Wh-what…? With my kitchen knife?!” She pointed a shaky finger towards the expensive paring knife in my hand.

“I’m learning about organs in school, and I just wanted to see some real ones,” I said, monotone. “Besides, I needed this knife since you took my scissors away.”

Scooping up the dead pigeon in my bloody hands, I held it out towards my foster mother. “See? I think I found its stomach, right here…”

I pressed the tip of the paring knife deeper into the bird’s stomach, forcing a small trail of blood to fall down the bird’s side, pooling in my hand.

Megan doubled over, throwing up into the grass, and I just stared at her with my head tilted slightly, confused by her reaction.

Did I do something wrong?

Was I supposed to be upset?

Why don’t I understand why Megan is being so dramatic?

“Get…get inside. Now. G-Go shower and get cleaned up,” she stuttered, pulling her knitted cardigan tightly around her chest, and hugging herself.

“But, I’m not done, I–”

“I said, go. Now.”

Still confused, I placed the pigeon down on the grass, stood, and tucked the paring knife away into the pocket of my jeans before turning towards the front door.

I’m eleven years old. How can she not believe that I know how to use a knife? I don’t understand what she’s so freaked out about… Was I holding it wrong?

Quickly dismissing it in my mind, I wiped my bloody hands on my jeans before turning the doorknob to the front door. I stepped inside and looked over my shoulder towards Megan, who had her back turned and her cell phone to her ear.

“Yes, Doctor Halloway? It’s about Tara. Again.” Megan’s voice in the distance was barely audible, but I closed my eyes to focus on listening before closing the door behind me.

“It happened again; a bird this time… Yes… No, this has been too much… Yes… Alright, I’ll get her to your office by then… Thank you, Doctor…”

Megan is my third foster mother in six months.

I’m “too much to handle” according to Gemma, the social worker at the group home that I’m now expecting to return to.

I should be upset; why don’t I feel a thing?

“Adam, you need to come home. It happened again…”

I had no desire to hear her cry to her husband, so I closed the door behind me and hummed Beethoven’s Für Elise while strolling into the restroom. As I turned the sink on to wash my hands, I heard Megan close the front door and sigh exasperatedly.

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