"Mom, I don't have any clean shirts!" I yell for her attention, but Billy Graham is blasting too loudly from her phone, rendering her deaf. Normally I would have just put up with putting on a dirty shirt, but today I am not in a particularly good mood. I walk down the stairs, the small mounds of fat mounted on my chest jiggling like a young girl's breasts, my feet thudding with each step.

I've had it up to here.

Every day she does this.

These thoughts race through my mind as I head to the dining room in the back of the house, not really having any words planned out, though now I find that words are not needed.

Mom is dead.

She lies there on the floor, a hideous, malformed hand wrapped around her throat like a noose, and tears are running down the side of her face, dripping onto the bloody hardwood floor. I open my mouth to scream, but no sounds come out. Only physical aggression as I latch onto her attacker, beating his head against the floor with supernatural strength. Pure hatred fuels me, and I pick up one of the dining room chairs by the leg, jamming one of them deep into his eye socket.

Blood splashes against my face and the naked man lives no more.

Since early childhood, I've always had a deep sense of justice; a feeling that those who do wrong should be always punished, sometimes even killed. But up until now, I have never acted upon them in the way that I have wanted to. Now, the dead, mutilated body of a naked man lies at my feet, a chair leg lodged deep into his eye socket. Blood is dripping down my face, a mixture of Mom's and his.

I don't know anything about the naked man, not even his name; the only knowledge I have of him is that I killed him with a chair, my first murder.

This might be another of my daydreams again, but it feels much too real to be anything of that sort. My waking nightmares have crossed into reality, and now there is no turning back.

Any rational person would call the police, but I am no ordinary person, perhaps not even rational. It may have been in self-defense, but I know that in my heart of hearts that the killing brought me an exhilaration that no drug or horror story could ever hope to provide. I feel a twist in my chest, but do my best to ignore it.

Time to dispose of the body.

The gears in my mind turn at a blinding pace, and I grab a great deal of things; first, a saw from the garage. A power saw would be much too loud, and draw a dangerous amount of attention. Next, duct tape, grocery bags, a kitchen knife, and finally the blue tarp from the basement to do my new messy work on.

The first thing I do is begin by slicing the fingers and toes from the hands and feet of her assailant, to get used to the horrible feeling of chopping up a pair of corpses. The sensation of painful twisting in my chest grows worse and acid creeps up my throat as I fight back the urge to vomit. I keep one of the fingers out of the bags, and set it on the dining room table. In the midst of this disgust, I feel a new urge; one to knock off the bucket list; one I would never speak aloud.

Now, I cut off the four limbs, sealing them in the grocery bags with duct tape, setting them aside and removing the head, which I put in the kitchen freezer. Now, a shocking curiosity has calmed out all the other feelings, and I lose myself in the ragtag surgery, moving on to Mom.

Tears begin to build up again; it's too much for me to handle. I leave her as she is, and throw the chopped up killer off of the bluff in the backyard, where the rolling pieces in the leaves and trees are drowned out by the deafening sounds of machinery from the factory near the bottom.

I put the finger in a little Ziploc bag, stuffing it away in my jacket pocket.
Getting in the car, I begin my getaway. It won't be long before Dad comes home for lunch break, and he'll see everything. No, all he'll see is Mom, and that's going to look very bad for me.
Houses and street lights zoom past me, as I drive at incredible pace into...

The school parking lot. Putting the car in park, I sluggishly grab my backpack, loading it with my books and a sketchpad into it before heading in. My phone buzzes, and I flip it open.

FROM: MOM
YOU FORGOT TO TAKE THE TRASH OUT.

I'm back in reality, once again an ordinary, if not weak, high school student.

As I walk into school, I can't help but feel as if I am being watched from behind, but the sensation slowly fades away as the classes go on.
Until the last class, Algebra.

Halfway through, everything around me began to run in slow motion, before rusting, dying and decaying before my eyes. All of the other students disappeared, and the teacher's clothes ripped themselves off as if being torn apart by an unfelt wind. And in the ancient ruins of an ancient classroom, the naked man was back, he and I completely alone together.

The line blurs again.

I take up the pencil in my hand and plunge it deep into his throat, blood once again showering over my face. "No!"

"No!"

"The boy!"

"Stop him!"

Countless voices around me clamor in my ears, spouting curses and cries of terror as they watch the naked man die before them. Unseen hands take hold of me, grabbing me everywhere at once, pinning me down and not letting go. But it's too late. I am victorious.

"Jarod!" Mom is standing in the doorway, and the sight her alive instantly pulls me back into reality.
Everyone is pinning me down as I flail about, bloodied pencil still in hand. I feel a carrot in a Ziploc bag digging into my leg from my jacket pocket. And Mr. Leo is on the floor, dead.
But one of them loses his grip on my hand for just a moment;
a moment long enough to plunge the pencil into my own throat.