The Nameless: Chapter One

I strode away from the mangled corpses of my victims. Quite a pleasure, since I hated them so much. Snobby little she's.

Blood was my favorite taste. I just loved the tang, the way it rolled over my claws and pearly white fangs was so satisfying. The texture of the salty red vitals as it poured through my tawny fur and dropped onto the ground seemed to complete my day.

Oh, blood was so precious. That's what made killing even sweeter. But there was always that small voice in the back of my head, mixed up with the rest, telling me it was wrong. A crime. Is it? Is killing bad? I've been doing it for the longest time, and had never been caught nor ever lost a fight. That voice was fading, though, slowly drowning in the abyss of the other ever growing voices.

I stalked through a ridged stone trail leading to my gave, talking to my thoughts as the rough terrain seemingly threatened to sink into my hardened paw pads. When I was younger, in a much more innocent time, others used to call me 'cute' or 'adorable'. Such wretched, horrible names. I sat down and began cleaning the scarlet blood off my pelt, which was like a slight snack, continuing the train of thoughts coursing through my twisted mind.

My first kill was was my other sibling. My parents were oblivious of the fact that it was I who committed the murder. It wasn't like they'd expect their own child to, all the same. As I grew a bit older and possibly more bloodthirsty, I drowned my mother. Then killed my father as he was pathetically weeping over his love's sopping wet corpse.

That, Reader, was my first real experience of the happiness I searched.

After that incident, people would ask me: “Do you ever get lonely?” and “Don't you miss them? After all, they were your parents.” However, there is no answer to neither inquiries. I had my voices. They were my friends, my second family. They kept me, well, me.

I hadn't murdered anyone after that. . . But eventually I had to. The next victim was a tomcat who apparently thought I was his friend, and he was mine. Folly. I asked him if he wanted to inquire something to eat, and we went out as the old pals he imagined us to be. There was no one in sight to witness the crime that was about to unfold. The birds were chittering, minding their own business in the once lucious trees that surrounded the terrain. It was there that I had killed the tom as I did with my father. Long, painful, and final. I killed everything, anything.

A yawn formed in my blood-stained jowls, revealing a row of teeth that had committed so many of these murders. Remembering all of this made me content. My first kills always made me proud, as it should anyone else. Shaking through my scar-filled pelt, I curled up in the nest of bones.

Tomorrow, Reader, would be another kill. Another victim.

Another average day.