When I was a child, everyone laughed at me.
I'm not sure whether it was because of my looks or my inability to talk properly without stuttering and mincing my words, they just laughed.
In fact, they seemed to always go out of their way to laugh at every little mistake I made. Whether it was dropping a penny, nearly tripping over a small stone on the pavement, or not knowing how to solve a complex science equation on the board, I couldn't get pass the mistake without hearing at least some hushed snickers at my slips.
Don't get it wrong, I was never bullied or anything like that, it just seemed like the school had conspired against me and gave me the label of school clown.
It was awkward at first, but after a few months of this, I began growing weary of the sound of it. The weariness slowly turned to hatred. I hated it. I hated the sight of people's lips curling into smiles before parting and letting loose a loud sound to express their amusement. But what was I to do about it? People had their perspectives on what was funny, and I was just a schoolboy.
I believe my first murder was that of a cat. I was strolling back home after another hellish day at school. I felt like I was carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. Many who got lost in their thoughts would often wonder about one of many life's mysteries, or perhaps what they wanted to do or accomplish in the future, or just what they wanted to have for their next meal. My wonder was why in bloody hell did people have to keep laughing at me for my blunders. Was I that amusing to them? Didn't they have other things to laugh at? I thought they would get bored of me and focus on other things like how humans naturally did, but for some reason they seemed to never get bored of my clumsiness or stutters.
While I was lost in my thoughts, my feet chanced upon a stone on the pavement. Being the clumsy person I was, my toes decided to acquaint themselves with the stone, and my face with the floor. The familiar stings of pain spread across my nose and jaw, and immediately I got up, cursing my own clumsiness. As I tried to focus on something else besides the pain, my ears picked up the sounds of a cat mewing. I looked at it, and it looked at me before licking its fur.
Most would dismiss it as a cat going about its usual business, but I didn't. Maybe it was exam stress. Maybe it was the day's work that had got to me. Maybe all the time of getting laughed at had caught up with me.
Whatever the reason, I had somehow envisioned the cat to be laughing at my little slip just like how every other schoolmate I had would, and it licking its fur was it trying to feign innocence of ever laughing at me. I was usually called gentle by my mother and didn't have the face of someone who looked like he would hurt a fly, but at that moment, I didn't see an innocent cat. All I saw was red.
Up to this day, I still do not know what spurred my next act.
I lunged at the cat, grabbing its lower body before it had the chance to spring away. The cat yowled and tried to defend itself by scratching at me with its claws. This merely added fuel to my anger's fire, and I found myself wrapping my hands around its neck. The kitty continued to claw at me, and I tightened my grasp around its throat. I held my grip there until its body went limp and its claws ceased to scratch me any longer.
With the red mist of blind anger now cleared of my senses, many things came crashing at me all at once. The new pain on my arms, the feeling of blood running down my arm from the newly acquired cuts I had, and what I had just done.
I had just killed a living thing.
I had just killed a living, breathing, formerly alive thing.
I staggered as I rose to my feet. I whirled around with a speed that could have broken my neck, ensuring that no one witnessed my unspeakable crime. Most people driven insane would have felt an odd sense of satisfaction of ending something or someone's life, but I didn't feel it. I had rid myself of something that had given me bad memories. But was it worth it? Was a cat's life worth the cost of getting rid of something that had given me a flash of bad memories?
This was wrong. I wasn't a murderer. I wasn't going to be one. Even if I did, how was I supposed to justify my gruesome actions? I quickly picked up the cat's corpse and hurried home. Ignoring the pain in my arms, I went to the shed nearby, and picked out a shovel. I ran to the most discreet location I could find to bury the cat's body before hurrying back home, wishing to cleanse myself of the blood before anyone could notice.
I have experienced fear before. I have experienced it in everyday life, constantly worrying about how my next blunder would happen and how I could prevent it.
But this fear I was experiencing was different. It wasn't the normal type to play around in one's mind. It takes control of your thoughts; it fuels your body's adrenaline. It causes one to fumble their speech or actions more so than usual. That was what I was experiencing. My mother asked if I had needed to see a doctor, but I quickly declined. Suppose the doctor found my now-bandaged arms, what excuse could I give? I hurriedly finished my dinner and got ready for bed, hoping that sleep could be a peaceful retreat from my crime.
That night, my dreams were nearly devoid of anything save for a black entity. Its eyes were a bright orange, and it stared at me with an intensity that would have fried me if looks could kill. I was about to question it when it pulled something from its back, and I tensed immediately.
It was the corpse of the cat that I had killed earlier. Its body seemed empty of any substance, but it still sat up and looked at me. Its teeth were devilishly sharp. It leapt from the entity's hand and began approaching me. Its appearance varied as it approached, but by the time it came near a fingernail's length away from me, it seemed to have decided what to look like.
It had some teeth long for ripping, gleaming wet from black dog gums. So you keep your eyes closed at the end. You don't want to see such a mouth up close, before the bite, before its oblivion in the goring of your soft parts, the speckled lips will curl back in a whinny of excitement. You just know it.
The cat gave one last snarl before lunging at me, its freakishly long claws aiming for my throat, and I screamed.
When I thought for thinking that a cat coildnt possibly be able to laugh at my blunder, I was wrong.
Anything could laugh at you, especially one that haunts you for all of your wrongdoings.
It watches you, it follows you. And when you finally cave in, it rears its ugly head and lets loose the most horrible laughter you can ever hear.
Written by I'llBeYourFriend
Inspired by Edgar Allen Poe