Just a quick oneshot. Please R&R.

*****

I remember that night like it was yesterday. Dear old Daddy was out again on one of his pub crawls. I was seven.

Mum made me macoroni cheese for dinner and she read me Jack and the Beanstalk twice, before kissing me and purple teddy.
"Night night, my little Jack" She smilied before turning the light out, for the last time.

I loved my mum, she was always gentle and kind. Maybe too kind, maybe that's why she never left him, she floated around the apartment her hair like a fairy tale princess', all soft and golden. Her eyes were a soft brown like a baby deer's and her lips were rosy pink.

*****

That night he came home earlier than usual, I heard him shouting, swearing at her. My lovely mum, I couldn't let him do that, so I ran clutching purple teddy to the kitchen doorway. The sight that met my eyes, innocent eyes then, was horrifying.

My mum was backed up against the wall, the breadknife clasped in her shaking hands, fear on her beautiful face. He was laughing drunk and high on her panic and fear, he wrenched the knife from her, laughing "You thought I wouldn't find out, I'm gonna teach you a lesson you'll never forget"
I was paralysed with fear all I could do was watch as he slashed and stabbed at her arms and chest again and again. Blood splashed the neat cream walls of our kitchen and my mum's screaming could have shattered glass.

Eventually, the screams stopped and the only sound was the rhythmic sound of the breadknife in her heart. He stepped back to admire his work, my mum's body fell to the tiled floer with a thump, I stared at her desecrated form, her eyes swam with blood, her lips stained forever scarlet and her golden hair was sullied, streaked with blood and the filth from that butcher's hands.

*****

He turned to me covered in my mum's heart blood and smiled with triumph.
"It's just you and me now, Jacky my boy" I was still frozen with fear, unable to move, unable to speak, to think. He staggered towards me and grabbed my shoulder.
"Why so serious son?" He asked gripping my face in a blood drenched hand "Why so serious?" He forced the knife between my lips, catching my tongue. Blood filled my mouth I swallowed convulsively and shuddered.
"Let's put a smile on that face" He shifted his grip on the knife and . . . . .

*****

I woke the next morning, my face acheing and covered with dried blood on the living room floor, I felt my cheeks and whimpered as my fingers encountered ugly puckered scabs. I looked nervously around the room, I saw the breadknife, mum's corpse and him.
Snoring like a pig on on the sofa.
His clothes and hands stained with blood. Her blood and my blood.

I grasped he knife in my hand, it felt good, it felt right and the killing itself ? It felt so natural, the slice of metal through flesh, the screams that faded into gurgles and eventual scilence and the smell and colour of blood as it flowed over my hands.

I circled his corpse curiosly, the look on his face made me laugh, although my savaged face stung afterwards, and the way the blood slowly congealed, from shining ruby red to dark brown was captivating.

*****

There was a knock on the door and I saw the shillouette of a policeman, he knocked again "Hello? Mr and Mrs Napier?" I opened the door and spiralled into chaos.

I'm an agent of chaos.

*****

Thanks for reading:) Please R&R