By Carolina Franco
Edited by: Matilde Freitas
He looks over the top of the staircase at the entryway of his far-too-expensive house. The usually agonising white walls finally have something covering them, though the image seemed too morbid to enjoy - not that he cares. Red blossomed across the furniture, spreading like wildfire. He knows that, in theory, he should be scared, but he feels nothing.
His small hand holds the guard of the handrail, not quite reaching the top, feeling the wood digging into his palm. He could feel the dinosaur ring he got from some fast-food restaurant children’s menu carving itself on his finger. He ignores the putrid smell carrying itself across the house, most likely the rotten flesh from all the mortal remains in every square inch of the entrance, proof that immortality is reserved for the gods.
The silence is deafening, screeching quietly in his ears, occasionally broken by a dripping sound from a displaced cabinet in the corner. Everyone constantly walked into it, only bruises on their hips left behind to tell the story, but no one had ever actually tried to move it away.
Well, it’s too late now.
He could feel death lingering on his tongue and he welcomes the feeling like a popsicle on a hot day, letting it enter his bloodstream and fill him with ecstasy. Running his tongue through his teeth, he could taste the sweet sourness of the blood that stained them. He didn’t remember getting any of their blood in his mouth. Was it his own?
A gentle voice sounds from the left, soothingly slipping through his bones.
“It’s okay,” it says. “You did well.”
He welcomes the comfort, wanting to lean into it but focusing on going down each step, afraid of slipping on the pools of blood at his feet. A second voice joins in, as usual. They always come together, desperate to be heard, even though they’re nothing more than whispers in the wind.
“You should’ve been smarter about this.” He dislikes how judging it sounds. “We’ll get caught and sent to juvie. Is that what you want?”
“Why does it matter what he should’ve done? It’s over, leave him.” They feel like an angel and a demon, one on each shoulder. The difference is that both of them couldn’t care less about the parricide he just committed. If anything, they were his logical and emotional side arguing for power.
He finishes his way down the stairs and jumps in between the awkwardly positioned limbs covered in an uncomfortable amount of unrecognisable liquids. Stepping on his sister’s hair, he apologises inwardly. Not that she could complain.
He sits on the sparkly white couch, picking up the TV remote, not sparing a glance at the bloody handprint he left behind. The far too big puppy slippers fall on the carpet as he sits cross-legged, turning on his favourite channel.
Too much time passed.
“Officer Evans, responding on the scene.” Footsteps sound behind him, but his eyes never leave the cartoon on the screen.
“They’re here,” his personal demon hollers, the star character in his crimson covered dreams. “They’re going to take us away!”
“Someone’s alive,” the officer says, sounding closer. “Hey, buddy. Are you-” he stops.
The boy finally looks up, his big eyes unwavering. Perhaps it was the blood, but none of them said another word.
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