22 years ago, when I was born at home my mother already knew I was different, from the way my eyes gleamed when she made the final cut and slice of one of our butcher animals and how I would laugh when I saw the blood pouring out of the animals' neck, I just loved to watch its final life essence plunge away. My mother still loved me, more than most mothers, because as soon as I was born the man, who claimed to have loved her. Left. Left her to nothing, leaving her to her demise. With me. I promised her I would never make the same mistake of falling in love, I claimed I would never be so irresponsible and weak from love. From an early age, I enjoyed being alone and would scream and hit whenever my mother tried to get me to play with other children my age. Their soft skin always tore too easily when I bit it, they were no fun to play with, they were all so weak. How was this my fault? Their parents would always come running, grabbing their sobbing children while glaring at me, their gaze filled with undistinguished hatred. When this happened, I would laugh, I loved seeing them in pain, it was the only time when I was happy, I craved this happiness. Sometimes I was too rough and would hurt one too badly, I just could not help myself I loved when their warm sticky blood washed over me, the flow of the blood soothed me. Whenever this happened mom would just smile and praise me, she also seemed to find high pleasure in this bloodlust act.