Page 1 of Bad for You

“I’ve been a bad boy and need to be punished,” says thestronzotied to the bed in this shithole of a hotel.

His tiny dick is nowhere to be found under his disgusting belly, which jiggles as he cranes his thick neck to look at me standing at the foot of the bed. He licks his porty lips. I will take great pleasure in cutting out that tongue and feeding it to him.

I don’t care what his name is.

I don’t care what any of their names are.

It’s not because I’m trying to detach myself from the deplorable acts I commit, but rather, I just don’t care. It makes no difference to me. They’re all a means to an end, and my endgame is survival because I am hunted.

An eye for an eye, the Bible says—the text my mother once lived by.

Once I found the woman who bore me for nine months, only to abandon me on the doorstep of Saint Maria’s Orphanage, I thought an epiphany would strike and all would be healed.

What a naive fool I was.

I wish I could ask the simple question,why?

Wasn’t I cute enough?

Did I cry too much?

Or could it be because I looked too much likehim?

Many havesaid my mother and father’s meeting wasn’t fated in the stars. Rather, it was churned in the bowels of hell because nothing good would ever come from my mother, Sister Margarette, falling in love with the convicted and infamous serial killer, Patrick O’Loughlin, and having his daughter…me.

My mother was a woman of God, but she soon forgot the vows she took when her parish sent her to provide spiritual guidance to death row inmate #39280.

My father was found guilty of brutally raping and killing fifteen innocent women. For his sins, he was sentenced to death. During his time on death row, he apparently found God. I often wonder where God was when he tied Tina Gully to a radiator and starved her to death after he was done torturing her with a starved sewer rat.

Or was JC on a sabbatical when my father bludgeoned to death a nineteen-year-old French hitchhiker with his tire jack because he was having a bad day?

This man was my father, the man my mother fell in “love” with, but not before falling pregnant with the spawn of Satan—me.

I want to believe she saw some good in him. That she believed he could be saved. But I know the truth, and that truth is that my mother is as much a monster as my father once was.

The day he was executed was the day I was born.

Again, another cruel twist of fate because I always felt like a part of his soul took over mine on that day. That’s the only explanation as to why I do the despicable things that I do and like them…so very much.

I’m not a bad person.

It’s him,I reason with myself. It’s his voice I hear, spurring his baby girlon to carry on with his legacy.

It can’t be me because if it were, what does that say about who I am?

Oh, who am I kidding? There is no one to blame but me.

I lie because yes, I’m not a bad person. That’s correct because I am far worse. I’m utterly ruthless and depraved and delight in all things blood and violence.

“Youhavebeen a very bad boy,” I coo in a sickly sweet voice, which makes me want to vomit. But assholes like him eat this shit up. “So I’m going to punish you how you deserve.”

The pile of shit on the bed giggles eagerly. Little does he know his time on this earth is about to be siphoned off in mere minutes.

The familiar swirl of euphoria stirs in my stomach, the excited feeling of all the bloody and macabre things coming this way.

I reason with myself that thisbastardodeserves it. He’s my enemy. He also dabbles in pimping out kids, so he deserves everything that’s coming. He made his choice, and now, I make mine as I leap onto the bed, straddling him as I would a horse.

He likes it. But I’m going to like it even more when I scoop out his eyeballs and ram them down his throat.

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