I cower. Prim, my sweet, darling daughter is coming at me with a knife. Prim, I cry. What's wrong with you! I fall back, because she is making a guttural noise deep in her throat. I can see her crazy eyes, glinting off of the fireplace. She raises the knife and smiles. I know this will not be easy for me. She is not Prim anymore. Prim didn't hurt a flower.
She smiled, but she was still growling. She leaned forward. Her mother was petrified with fear.
No. No, no, no, no, no…
Yes…
PLEASE!
She thrust the penknife into her mother's kneecap. She screamed, a long, bloodcurdling scream.
She loved it. She relished it. She longed for the piercing shriek filling her ears, the air was heavy with a palpable agony that she adored.
She pushed the penknife farther, everywhere: under the nails, the soles of the feet, kneecaps.
Eyes.
She finally shoved the penknife into her mother's (must stop calling her that) eyes. The blue irises were gone, and blood was pouring out of her mother's (have to stop calling her that) empty sockets. She screamed and screamed as she allowed the blood to flow onto her hands, to saturate them and crust them.
Then she pulled out her mother's intestines. She cut off her feet. She enjoyed every minute.
And then her mother (HAVE TO STOP CALLING HER THAT) died.
