The serial killer's weakness

Nineteen and a half

When I was a child I used to hide amongst the mulberry bushes, my father would yell and clutch at the purple stained flesh of my wrists, whilst tugging me towards the house. A man does not indulge his time in such places, no son of mine will play in filth like common swine. I would not cry and I would not whimper, I had learnt that this would only make it worse. It was beneficial to wait, wait until he led me up the wooden steps that rasped and shuddered under his mighty footsteps as he trudged his way up to my mother's room. I would continue to wait, stiff as a soldier as he yelled at my mother, occasionally flailing my purple hands in front of her. What would my colleagues think if they saw him like this? I'd be a disgrace, I can't even control my son whose engrossed himself amongst the animals with his mother god knows where.

Mother would smile and laugh, he's just playing dear. The red brand and the purple lumps ironically resembling mulberries would taint her face for a month afterwards. I fell down the stairs...they are getting quite old, how clumsy of me, I ran into the light pole last night.

Once my father left the room, the waiting was over. The skin around my eyes would feel as though it was being pricked by thousands of needles with big blobs of tears emerging from the small incisions instead of blood. My face would flush red and big obnoxious sobs would hack their way out of my mouth as I rubbed at the inflamed skin of my wrists stamped in the shape of his fingers. Warmth would envelop my shaking shoulders and I would allow my knees to collapse as I knew she would catch me...she always caught me. She would delicately touch her lips to my forehead, whispering reassurances and I love yous.When I think back on it, it was amazing how long it took until that final day. The day it all ended.