Refusing to seek psychiatric help for the “bastard” – although strongly recommended by the authorities; and urged by various members throughout the town – instead, the grandmother decides upon another method for curtailing the child’s erratically homicidal behavior. From that day on, she kept him restrained, stripped of all clothing, bound with heavy, iron chains, securely tethered to a support beam in the basement. Sporadic feedings were given to him – sometimes days would pass before the next one – and he would eat and drink from two, old rusted pie pans. A section of the concrete floor in the basement was broken up and removed, and a three foot deep hole was dug out. This was where he was expected to go to the bathroom. Every week, grandmother would through lime done to cover the smell of the accumulated urine and feces; being sure to throw a handful of the caustic white oxide of calcium substance in the wild child’s now grotesquely deformed face – his cranium, having had an enormous amount of calcium deposited and layered over it, now has pushed the forehead forward so prominently, he looked more like Neanderthal man; his jaw even more elongated – almost cartoonishly exaggerated; a mouth full of crooked, razor sharp teeth - seemingly more canine than human; and pupils even darker than when he was first born – almost the color of a shark’s – centered in eyeballs that never lost their jaundiced appearance - as a reminder of “who was in charge”.
Five months after his sister’s birth - on a night lit up by a bright-orange, autumn moon – the Reaper wriggles free from his chains. He grabs the hand-held scythe hanging on the wall, climbs the steps to the door leading to the kitchen, wedges the tool between the door and the jamb, and pries his way to freedom.
He stealthily leaves the kitchen, passes through the dining room, and enters the living room; all the time methodically moving so not to disturb the stillness of the house – like a natural predator of the night; hunting its prey.
He creeps up behind the couch, where his first victim – grandmother – is sprawled out, inebriated from that night’s binge. Menacingly hovering over her listless body, he takes a moment, and looks down upon her, filled with such rage and loathing contempt for her; yet still expressing no emotion whatsoever on his disfigured countenance. Then, in an instant, he grasps her hair in his left hand and drags her head just past the end of the couch and snaps back her head to extend her neck. She opens her eyes just in time to watch the approaching razor sharp blade streak downward - a silhouette-blur – cutting first through the dim lighting; then her neck. Decapitated by one quick, forceful swipe of the scythe.
Next, upstairs; to mother’s room.
The bedroom door’s ajar. It’s silently pushed open. The predator creeps in.
The mother’s also unconscious – not alcohol – barbiturates. Again, like grandmother, he approaches; then hovers.
She’s lying on her back, wearing a tight fitting tee-shirt and panties. He softly places the side of the blade against her thigh, and slowly inches it up, positioning it between her hip and the panties. With a quick twist, the material is cut, and he pulls the front piece over, exposing the pubic area.
He slowly raises the scythe back up to his shoulder, stares down again for another moment – again displaying a stone-cold expression – then uses a quick, powerful thrust to violently penetrate the vagina. Instinctively, her body shoots up to a sitting position as she shrieks out in agony. He uses his free hand to push her back and pin her to the mattress. Then, using the abnormal amount of strength he was “gifted” with, he pulls the scythe in an upward direction towards he chest; ripping through her innards, tearing the flesh – resembling the action of cleaning out a fish by cutting open the belly.
Once the blade’s hindered from moving up any further by the sternum; he pulls it out, drops the scythe, thrusts his arm – nearly up to the elbow – into the now accessible chest cavity, takes hold of and rips out her heart; then throws it though the bedroom widow – with the blood it contained spurting out as it falls to the ground below as a result of the glass shards from the window pierce the chambers.
At this point, because of the mother’s scream and commotion of the attack, his sister is crying hysterically in her crib; which is in the far corner of the room. He walks over and looks down upon her.
She’s crying so hard now that she’s gasping between shrieks; turning crimson as her body twitches, and her tiny fingers and toes flutter. Tears are streaming out the corners of her tightly squinted eyes, flowing down past the ears to the back of her head. Blue veins are now rising out from the bald, reddened head.
He reaches down, and gently picks her up; cradling her lovingly in his arms. He slowly paces about the room, soothingly swaying her back and forth. She starts to calm down. He continues cuddling her. She’s calmed down; and begins snuggling the side of her face into his chest. He continues to cradle and cuddle her as he moves over next to the mother’s bureau. She snuggles. He caresses.
Then he let’s go and drops her; catching her by the ankles before she hits the floor. Holding on to them, he furiously swings her in a wide arc motion over his head; smashing the back of her head open on the corner of the bureau.