Hybristophylia

Chapter 02: First Blood

The next day was filled with much more noise than normal. Between interviewers and psychiatrists trying to dip into mind mind. They thought they saw right through me but the reality was they were more revealing to me. The way i was able even behind thick bulletproof glass was able to rip away their prideful fascades and reveal the pigs underneath. I loved how i was able to get under their skin and toy with their mind. 

The newspaper deemed me the real life Hannibal, much to my amusement. The irony was pushed even further when they bound and forced a muzzle on my face. Many times when the newer recruits came around i would quote the dialogue i remembered from the movies, catching the employees of gaurd. 

It was true that in some views that me and the fictional doctor Lector were similar. The very fact we both enjoyed the taste of human flesh. Then again that would also mean that me and the chainsaw weilding Leatherface would be placed in the same category. The difference was that I was nowhere near his age when i was captured, nor did i begin my canibilistic killings out of revenge. 

I didn’t grow up in a war torn country nor was i raised by a bunch of rednecks with a taste for human flesh. I was raised in a rather normal household, much to people’s confusion. The press pondered how a boy around the age of nineteen leave such a high bodycount and what was my story. They came up with so many ideas ranging from insanity to being cursed by the devil.The truth is much simpler than you would expect. You see all of these crime shows speaking of serial killers with complex backstories of abuse or rape. 

I grew up with a forensics investigator for a father as well as a psychiatrist for a mother. Both of them would be what you would call perfectionists as well as workaholics. When i was younger my parents would spend most of their time working and when they were paying attention to me they always seemed to try to mold me into what they would consider a perfect child. I Both mother and father wold teach me the loops of their professions in hopes of encouraging me to join them. I was like a puppet to my parents and If I refused my mother would use her therapist skills to manipulate me. I found it much easier to play the perfect role.

I would be forced to work hard, making straight A’s in any of the classes i attended, if not i would be lectured on the poor image that i would give to them. I simply continued all of the classes my parents picked for me, did my chores, and listened to what they taught me. I played the role as their perfect poster child, at least until i grew bored of it.

It was around the age of thirteen i began to break the mold my parents expected of me. It was a day when my Psychology teacher attempted to make a mockery of my report on The human mind. He was what most call radical in his views, i saw him as nothing more than an idiotic child. He tried to shame me for my arguments in his logic. He resorted to violence, attempting to strike me with his ruler. I pulled it from his hand and struck him across his face.

When i got home i explained my resoning to my parents and i was sent to my room after my lecture. Even to this day i can’t help but smile as i remembered the man’s face. From that point on i made sure to test the man’s patience through penmanship. I recalled my paper on Cannibalism got a rise out of him.

If we were being honest cannibalism was a topic that interested me for a while. Many say that they are people to have a part of them. Others are people to demonstrate power or for some sexual gratification. I began to wonder what a person would taste like compared to there meats. The vein popped out in his head and he once again drew his hand to try and strike me.
I watched as he drew back a hand, preparing to strike me across the face. As his hand drew closer i raised, the very pen i wrote the paper with up and watch him jam his hand into the sharp end. He howled in pain, falling back to the floor, taking a few desks with him. It reminded me of a wild hog squealing and kicking around. His fowl language was the icing on this cake of pure vile.