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Do not take another step, and that’s an order.

Look deeply into my skeletal face – do I disgust you? Good. That makes you no different from all the other souls who’ve been unfortunate enough to come face-to face with me, though it is not my appearance which terrifies people. Quite the contrary, most of the time their eyes are focussed on the gigantic pair of scissors I constantly carry with me which are now pressed against your abdomen.

Sharp, aren’t they? These scissors and I have been together for as long as I can remember – in fact they’re the first thing my mother ever gave to me – a small token to aid me with my wonderfully gruesome job, something to assist in fuelling my desire for destruction. They have shaped me into what stands before you now: a horrific murderer at the ripe old age of nine. Together we have become a force locals down in the village below tremble at the mere thought of – why, even animals prefer the safety of those who hunt them for food over me, and to them I appear as if I’ve clawed out of a nightmare. They refer to me as “Scissorman” down there, and murmur about me in hushed tones, passing on gossip and rumours that are too farfetched to be true. Some of them claim that I am simply a creature from folklore, a legend or a myth that simply won’t die…

But I am more than real, as you’ve discovered tonight, and fortunately for you (and sadly for me) I don’t feel like gutting your innards just yet. I might be a demonic monster but there is a small part of me that remains human – something capable of weak and feeble emotions such as compassion and mercy, though I’ve learnt to mask these feelings well. Perhaps it is because of the room we’re in, where my brother and I spent our first few nights together. We tore off a man’s hand when we were born, you know, ate it whole, too. The man screamed for hours and mother didn’t like that. We haven’t seen him since, but I have a good feeling that he was taken care of in a slow and painful manner – just like the poor fools of whom are led to the slaughter so often in this house. Our mother favoured Dan from the start, look over there – she even kept the cradle he slept in. I often imagine her cooing over him, her pride and joy while I was left unattended, a horrible task for the nannies and nursemaids to loathe and disgust. If you look up you’ll see that I’ve hung his dolls from the ceiling in spite.

I can’t blame people for despising me, nor can I blame my father for wanting to snap our necks and burning our hideous bodies, being the beasts that we are. Mother sees us as gods, and with my semi-immortality, she’s probably right. She had our father locked away in a cage in the shed as soon as he spoke of his hatred of us, though he is fed well, his diet consisting of people mother deems “undesirable” for Dan’s taste, he isn’t even considered a prisoner. She often laughs and taunts him about his lost humanity, and gets me to join in too, and we jeer at him as if he’s a caged animal that’s meant to perform and entertain us. I do it because I love her, like I kill because I wish for her approval, and maybe I’m no different from father because of that, simply something to entertain the woman who keeps us caged in this estate, though if I was not so keen for my mother’s attention, I would be more than capable of destroying her.

These scissors weigh almost as much as I do, yet I brandish them with ease and I always love it when my victims make it a challenge catching them, it’s futile, but it’s far more fun when there’s an edge of difficulty. Alas, I do not get to keep my spoils, no, they go to my gluttonous, undeserving brother who becomes more bloated and revolting every week. Mother says that his outer appearance is merely a cocoon – I think she’s just using the ritual that changed him into a bruised, blobby mess as an excuse to pamper her prodigal son. He’s probably sleeping in the caverns below right now, but he’ll be awake soon and he’ll be hungry – you’d make a great meal, you’re young enough for his appetite, and mother would be very pleased if I brought her your corpse, like our pet cat does with birds and rats. Maybe she’ll finally tell me how proud she is of me and how much I mean to her. Maybe she’ll finally say “I love you.” and give me the attention I crave so badly.

But I’m not going to do that. Not this time.

To disobey mother is blasphemy, her word is law in this house, despite serving monsters far more powerful than I – but I do not fear her judgement, I could destroy her easily if I wanted to, and besides, I want to savour the paleness of your face just a little while longer. You want to scream, don’t you? I can tell – your jaw is twitching much more than it did when you entered the room. Open your mouth and yell if you wish, but I’ll only chop your head off if you do, and that’ll be no fun for either of us. Perhaps I’ll store your body in one of the wardrobes until I can find something in the library which will show me how to preserve you. I could keep you under the bed and have my own little secret that not even mother would know about – now that would be something really special!

It won’t be long before mother brings the next batch of people to this slaughterhouse, and I’m feeling really generous tonight. In a few moments I’m going to lower this set of scissors and you’ll have a five minutes head start. Who knows – maybe you’ll find the entrance to the house unlocked and maybe you’ll slip through my grasp. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll live to see another day, while I stand in this wretched room once more, moping over my lost prize. But the chances of you winning are slim at best, even if you know how to outsmart me.

Now go, run as fast as you can, make it as hard as possible for me to catch you.

And remember: Should I ever cross paths with you again, I will not be as kind to you as I was just a moment ago.



Written by Laevateinn102
Content is available under {{#NewWindowLink:http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0%7CCC-BY-SA}}

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