I kill the people I like, relishing in knowing that they are being saved from the filth of the world. The filth that like me, consumes the good, the clean, suffocating & drowning them. The drones of society that hide behind their corporate lives, feeding on the innocent and starving the hungry to make a goddamned buck, so as to feel powerful. They think they know me; think they understand. But, I'm no savior, no Messiah. However, unlike the goddamned rest of the sheep in this world, I am not not blind to the horror show that exists behind every fake smile that covers a bloody scar. I see the garbage and refuse that rolls behind every tongue, watching it fester and spew forth from brain-dead followers of conformity - comfortably masticating their recycled notions and feelings, as if they could feel. I pray that they choke on them, so that this endless cycle of bullshit finally stops. But no, it never does.

I need to take action; need to save the clean from the piss that runs in the streets. I need to baptize the world in their blood, so that the world can finally be free and find redemption. I know there's good and evil, allegedly a God and a Satan, but I'm colorblind to which side I belong. All there is is light and dark, always in a constant battle, pulling me & pushing me.

No, I am no angel;

no prophet.

I'm a psychopath,

a monster,

a goddamned son of a bitch,

in the most literal sense.

I am Tate Langdon, and my life has rapidly been losing color.

WHITE

I always somewhat felt hatred toward my father, even before he left me with my cocksucking mother. Abandoning me to live on my own with the greedy bitch had made me detest him, yes, but what made me even more infuriated was how he had treated Addie and Beau, when we were kids. "Abominations" were his half-facetious terms for them, claiming that only something as hideous and fucked up as their existence could be the product of such an unholy union, as his to Constance. No doubt, Hugo felt very close to how I did about Mommy Dearest.

However, Hugo was different towards me as a child, looking at me with different eyes, seeing that I was not like my siblings, physically or mentally. And because of his behavior, I could tell that I scared the shit out of him.

Outwardly, I, unlike, my siblings, was an average child, rather than the monster that Hugo called Beau, or the retard that he called Addie. But, inwardly, I was even more set apart from them. I did not possess Addie's fearless strength and iron will. Nor did, I possess Beau's humility and unfaltering innocence. I was made of a different composition. Hugo saw this in me and looked at me with fear. So afraid that he looked as if he was staring into the eyes of Satan himself.

He was afraid alright. Afraid that I was more my mother's son than anticipated, and that I had just the right combination of his and Constance's blood to concoct poison. Essentially, I was the worst, most dangerous part of each of them, packaged into a child's form.

The truth was that I loved them both, desperately, always seeking their attention and approval, but fearing them all the same. Yet, I felt like I should hate them. Hate them for who they were, what they did, what they created. I hated them for creating a monster like me. A monster whose blood, composed of both their DNA, generated friction as it scraped along the insides of my veins – burning them, setting them on fire.

Yes, my blood was poisonous, venom – all by association.

My mother was a bitter hag and my father a cheating, perverted bastard – a match made in Hell. Constance wanted to be a movie star, but all chances of that were shot when she got knocked up by a low-life "agent", who promised to make her famous. Like the dumb bitch she is, she believed him; believed that screwing him would somehow allow her to wheedle her way into Hollywood and make her talented. Sure, martyr Constance would never admit such things, but my grandmother obviously, upset with her whore daughter, didn't have a strong enough muzzle around her grandkids. Apparently, she was all but pleased when 16-year-old Constance showed up on her doorstep with a baby girl – Alex.

I couldn't understand what my mother and Grandma Celia were always arguing about, but Addie and I weren't stupid. We knew that Alex was different than us, almost like we were the outsiders, and she was the only one who knew the secret – the secret to escaping the Hell whole in which we grew up. She was too good to be trapped in the insanity of such a fucked up family. Addie and I knew she belonged someplace else – someplace away from us all because at least she did not belong to both of our parents, and she had a chance to escape.

Hugo regarded her differently too, almost in the same manner he treated me, but in a positive light. He favorited her, probably because she was not in the least like him and because she was Constance's least favorite child. Alex reminded Constance of everything she lost, but she was special. It was as if every dream my mother had had as a girl, now broken, was manifested in this little girl. Somehow, out of all the filth and shattered ambitions, something pure was born, and Constance resented her for that. Hated that this small child had stolen her dreams and had garnered the attention of her husband.

Hugo loved Alex dearly because she was everything my mother and his children were not, but he loved her a little too much. And my mother refused to share the affections of any man with any woman in her house.

Yes, Hugo was no better than my mother, if not worse.

"You should never hurt someone if you love them – never."