Kimo Masuri always seemed to be a meek, down to earth child with nothing especially pronounced about his personality, and so it was the way it should be. He had always deemed to live his life in such a way that no-one would pay much attention to him, a life of constant home schooling and days indoors would do that to a kid. In fact the only time he was recognised was when he killed his parents, this wasn't some accident, you could tell just by looking at the crime scene that this was a gruesome attack, something that you would never expect to see from anyone. Let alone from the kid who had been stashed away since birth, he knew what people thought, the whispers that went on when he left the house on rare occasions, none of them were pleasant.
Kimo was a 16 year old boy who had never had any friend to speak of, who wasn't really allowed to make friends for fear that he might turn into the rebels that his parents had always feared. His parents were humanitarian ambassadors and were often sent around the world to aid in some new crisis or some existing civil war, so he never really saw them. It was sad really but he was used to it by now. In years gone by he would have had a nanny to look after him, a tutor to teach him in the core subjects and multiple chefs to cook for him. All in all a very quiet, boring life.
In the hours of free time he would keep himself locked in his room, reading the comics that he asked his nanny to get for him daily, after reading them he would bound around the luxurious house where he lived laughing, pretending he was one of the heroic people from the comics yet it was always result in him crying himself to sleep as he had no-one to share these fun times with. This happened more often than he would care to admit to anyone, it was embarrassing really. He was a cry baby, as his father used to always tell him.
He just had enough. Enough of everything, and at the root of it all was his parents, they were the ones who had locked him away for reasons not known by him. They were the ones who stopped him making friends with any of the local kids, who stopped him having some kind of a normal life. It was his parent fault that he didn't have any friends, it wasn't as if he wasn't good looking, at 6 foot and stocky enough to be considered muscular he had developed massively for his age. His hair was jet black and dark brown eyes looked down from underneath his shaggy fringe, it would be easy to make friends, he would tell himself. It never helped though.
It was obvious in the end he would snap, that his anger would seep out from under his meek, fragile exterior. It happened just before his father got home that night, his temper finally burst on his mother first, who he pushed down the stairs before bounding down to her prone body, jumping and stomping his foot down onto her skull, with his 6 foot, stocky frame there was no way she would have survived, yet the cracking and splintering of her skull made him feel so much better. The blood gushing from what was left of her skull felt warm, almost reassuring, that at least something would keep him company on those dark, cold nights that he hated so much, it was strange, he had never felt like this before. It felt pleasant; in fact it felt better than that. For the first time in 16 years he felt alive.
As he waited for his father to get home he would sit down in the pool of blood that was slowly seeping from the remains of his mother's skull, humming tunelessly, playing with the small fragments of bone that he could find, as he was playing he accidentally slice his left index finger open quite deeply , enough that it bled profusely. His eyes would fill with tears slightly as he stuck finger in his mouth almost like a baby sucking on his thumb. If anyone were to walk in at that moment they would think they had turned mad, suck would be the lunacy of the scene in front of them.
Yet no-one did, at least not for about an hour, then he heard the door open and his father would step in looking tired and dishevelled from work. His father was the only person Kimo knew who could make Kimo feel small, yet this didn't stop him this time. Barely had the scene in front of his father registered than Kimo was on his like a flash, yet something was different this time.
As he swept toward his father his left hand was covered in blood, yet it seemed to envelop his hand, like a gauntlet. He didn't pull up to investigate though, he was so close to freedom he could taste it, or that could be his mother's blood.
As he reached out for his father's neck the blood on his hand would reach out as if it had a mind of its own, and this 'armour' would slam him into the wall, crushing his windpipe. His father, dangling, a couple of inches off the ground would then begin to cough up blood as the light faded from his eyes. Kimo liked this, watching all the flickering emotions rush through in those final seconds: anger, desperation, fear. All of them, it was invigorating, it was empowering. After his father had passed, he tossed him like a rag doll onto the corpse of his mother.
After he finally killed his two captors he would sink onto the floor right next to the door and waited, like a puppy waiting for the return of its master. He didn't know what he was waiting for, he knew that if he was found he would be taken to trial and then executed, it was obvious, yet still he waited.
When morning came along the cleaner who came one a week opened the front door right beside Kimo and immediately let out a long high pitched screech, and all Kimo could do was smile, his left index finger still buried in his mouth.