As with each restless day, I find myself returning to this spot once more. While many prefer strolling through vast meadows, indulging in books, or frequenting the cinema, my preferences are somewhat different and peculiar – this is what soothes me when that wave of unease overtakes me.

“Bleer, how about we play a game?” I suggested, gripping my favorite knife – and I own quite a collection. Its handle gleams with a golden sheen and is set with delicate glass inserts that lend it an air of sophistication. But more than that, its razor-sharp edge can slice through the thinnest of papers. It was a birthday gift from my father some time ago; he always gives the finest presents.

Today, I will embark on creating a new masterpiece. I'll paint once more for my beloved Stefy; she always appreciates my works, especially knowing that the pigment is infused with blood. Initially, my canvases were Bleer's flesh, but I ran out of canvas as his body became devoid of space. So Stefy proposed a different use for his distasteful existence – he makes for an excellent source of paint.

Bleer's gaze meets mine as it always does – a mix of fear, agony, frustration, fury, longing, or perhaps all these emotions combined. Yet his look could not stir a shred of pity within me. I pulled out my cellphone, plugged in my earphones – unlike my father who uses music to curb his impulses, I use it to fuel my motivation. As Megadeth starts to play, I stride towards Bleer.

“When will you let me die? Please, I don't want to live anymore,” he pleaded, gaze downturned, incapable of looking me in the eye. His vision has dimmed, but it's clear the day for his peaceful demise hasn't come. I still yearn to watch him suffer a while longer. Yet, to be honest, his existence is beginning to irk and bore me in some way.

In the beginning, it was a vendetta for all he did in my youth – estranging me from my parents, causing me harm. But in time, it evolved into something rather amusing; hearing his cries, his pleas became the epitome of artistic expression. But lately, he ceased to entertain me; his cries and screams are no more. It no longer brings me joy.

Approaching him, I seized his arm and plunged the knife into his flesh, twisting it in circular motions until I carved out a small piece of meat. The gory hole bled profusely. His blood isn't as vividly red anymore, which makes me wonder if he needs vitamins. To no one's concern, the quality of my paintings has waned, according to my art teacher – “You must find a higher quality pigment,” he advised. I just smiled and assured him I would, although my cold disposition has not yet allowed me to seek out Bleer’s replacement.

Perhaps the quality faded because he no longer screams; his body, peppered with those holes, might have grown accustomed to the pain. It's turned into a torment, really. I crave excitement, but he fails to deliver it as he once did. I miss that brilliance he used to exude, the mesmerizing display of his screams. Now, I see only a wretched being yearning for death that eludes him.

The fun had waned; no longer did it bring me the surge of pleasure to see him bleed. I worked on the painting but felt no satisfaction. Ultimately, I destroyed it, for it lacked the essence it held when I first began painting for her – the magic was gone; the red of his blood was not what I longed for. "Stefy will not be pleased with this artwork," I thought, disheartened. Stefy deserves a piece of quality, not this trash.

"Your blood doesn't appeal to me anymore; it's lost the enchanting touch it once brought to my works. What am I to do with you? I need you to regain that magic..." I sighed.

Taking up a butcher's knife, I drew closer to him. I didn't intend to dismember him; I simply cut the chain that bound him, stepped back, and squatted down to whisper in his ear, “If you make it out of here alive, I won't torture you again,” I told him before walking away.

Yet if I am truly realistic, he'll never be able to leave; two years ago, I broke his spine.

"Alessandro, will you really let me go?" I turned and saw that for the first time in his life, he was looking at me, even though one eye was pointing in another direction. I had never seen Bleer cry with such hope; he always cried from pain. Playing with his feelings comes easy to me, but that glimmer of hope was still on his face - he truly wants his freedom. Poor fool, if only he knew I would rather see him dead and wailing like a rat in a trap than let him go alive. This damned soul deserves every tear and scream he has given me over the years; he isolated me from my parents and forbade me from having a normal childhood. Now he will see what awaits him. Now he will give me the quality blood I crave.

"Yes, I will let you go!" I closed the door behind me and sank the knife still in my hand into a huge barrel, from which a sulfur-smelling liquid seeped out – acid, no doubt. "That must cause him great pain," I thought with a beaming smile.

I moved away to avoid harm; I don't want to stain my clothes, they're new. After all, my safety is important as I am an emerging artist.

"Why do you do that? That barrel is very expensive; you'll have to buy a new one," I heard my father say, and I smiled. "You know how hard it is to get those barrels?" he commented as we watched the liquid being drained. It wouldn't spread much since I made the hole high up – my father gets upset otherwise. He usually dissolves people in acid, so those are his toys - rule one: don't anger the devil above.

"Dad, I want to see if it entertains me!" I declared, and he grinned. "Sorry, I won't waste the acid again. I'll try to buy you a new one, I promise!" I said, and he just sighed, placing his hand on my shoulder. I'm only 19, and my father has been such an influential figure in teaching me respect.

"If you're going to waste your father's toys so carelessly, get your own, and you're not buying one, but two – so you learn to appreciate their worth," he said with a cold look.

"Yes, Dad," I replied, bowing my head and watching him smile faintly; it's rare for my father to smile, but he often does with his family. To everyone else, he's a serious and aloof CEO, but he's not just any father – he is grand.

After a few minutes, we watched Bleer crawl out of the storage, unable to walk, left with no choice but to drag himself like the vermin he is. My and my father's eyes sparkled as we watched him wriggle like a worm.

He began to scream when his body made contact with the acid.

"Finally, he screams – how thrilling!" I exclaimed with a smile, watching his skin burn. The sight was mesmerizing, ineffable. Something ignited within me like a fuse, that sense of pleasure that causes your body to tingle entirely. I still don't understand why I enjoy this so much.

Half his face was now deformed from the substance, his clothes slightly singed, but still, I felt something was missing, wasn't the pain he was enduring enough? I wanted more, much more...

"Just be careful!" my father warned.

"Yes, Dad," I responded and walked away from him.

I approached Bleer from behind, grabbed his legs, which had yet to touch the acid, and dragged him back towards the place he'd emerged from – the pathway marked with the red I so cherish. The floor looked like a canvas, and it was beautiful.

I threw him against the wall and he wouldn't stop screaming. Once an arrogant and handsome man, now reduced to nothing, he used to have any woman he wanted and beat me whenever he pleased when I was a child. The day my father handed him over to me was the best day of my life—I'll never forget the first time I played with him; they say you never forget your first time. He was my first toy and the first gift I received from my father. I couldn't sleep for days, contemplating new methods of torture for him. Now, I fall asleep from boredom while tormenting him – it's been over ten years since I've had him locked up, and it's not fun playing with him anymore.

I grabbed a machete that was among my toys and severed one of his arms.

A smile crossed my face; I took the limb and left the room with the machete in one hand and Bleer's arm in the other.

"Do you feel better?" my father asked, peering into the "playroom" from behind me – the most thrilling place in the world to me, but once Bleer dies, I'll be left without a plaything. I've never killed or tortured anyone else, only animals; I'm not my sister. Alessia already has so many victims on her list that I don't understand why our parents haven't locked her in an asylum – I still believe she's insane or suffered a fall as a baby.

The sanest among us are my younger brothers, who apparently didn't inherit the curse of Kevin Smith, my father.

"A bit, Dad, but now I'm bored, I want a new toy!" I said, and he just smiled.

"Son, get your own toys. There are plenty of people who deserve it, just be careful." I love my father; he always supports his family's needs. "I think I can't keep handing out toys to my children. With Alessia, it's more than enough." He's right; Dad knows Alessia finds amusement with the twins' nannies. My father always hires women with dark histories so Alessia can occasionally deal with the trash; it doesn't justify her actions, just feeds her habit now and then.

We walked to his car, but before leaving the abandoned warehouse, I broke the arm into many pieces and tossed them to the dogs at the entrance, who began fighting over the tasty morsel. I'm not a cannibal, but I must admit, seeing them savor it so delightfully stirred a tinge of envy and hunger in me.

"They needed their share of garbage," my father said.

"Yes, since Grandpa Hector hasn't brought them food," I replied, and he smirked.

We walked to my father's car, and he drove. He lets me drive his car when he's tired, but I guess today's not the day.

I just gazed out the window, the scenery was nice, but my mind pondered what new form of amusement I could find.

When we arrived home, Mom welcomed us. Always showing the warmest affection, she rushed to my father and embraced him.

"Kevin, where have you been?" – my father encircled her waist and then smothered her with kisses; they never hide to demonstrate how much they love each other. We are so used to Dad always treating her like a queen, and woe betide anyone who dares to harm his most precious treasure.

"Nico, I just went to see how our son was playing with the dog food!" – Mom grinned crookedly and then turned to look at me. While she peeled away from Dad.

"My love, go take a shower, you look disheveled!" – she told me, brushing off the shoulders of my shirt that were slightly stained with blood, and kissed me on the cheek, her finger then glided under my ear. She can discern anything just by looking at someone, and in this case, at me.

"You're a bit dirty," – her finger was stained with red, that wretch had soiled me, my mother should not be touching the blood of that scum, her fingers are too beautiful for that.

"Yes, Mom, I'm going to take a shower, I'm starving - what are we having for dinner tonight?" – I inquired, dodging the subject and the discomfort I felt that that fool's blood had defiled my mother.

"I'm not sure, the cook hasn't prepared dinner yet, your sister is playing with her."

I smiled, I'm very familiar with Alessia's games, they're quite amusing, maybe it wouldn't be too bad to join in the fun.

I bid my parents farewell and started walking upstairs...

I ascended the steps fully intending to enter my room for a delicious and well-deserved shower, but before I could, curiosity got the better of me. So, I decided to check on how my sweet and charming sister was having fun with the cook.

When I opened the door, I saw the cook tied to the bed, legs spread; the woman was completely naked as my sister looked down on her with a contemplative expression on her face.

"I see you're having fun, little sister!" – I commented, meeting my sister's gaze; she smiled and ran into my arms.

"Do you want to join?" – she asked; I glanced at the cook, and she smiled back at me.

"Certainly." – I approached the cook, sat on the edge of the bed, and she kept smiling as though she was enjoying it.

"Did you drug her?" – It was the first thing that sprang to mind; I had never seen anyone take such pleasure in playing with my twin sister, and Alessia shook her head.

"No, I didn't drug her, she likes it." – my sweet sister moved away from me and drew closer to her nightstand. I watched as my sister held a scalpel in her hand and nicked the cook's arm, then licked the blood that pooled from the wound. I think my sister must be a vampire; she always drinks blood but never eats their flesh. What does human flesh taste like? Better to stop thinking about that – I'm no cannibal, I just enjoy playing.

A moan escaped the cook’s lips; evidently, my sister had already had lots of fun with her, for her body bore many shallow cuts made by a blade.

After drinking from her, my sister began to caress the woman’s breasts, which quickly responded and turned a tempting shade of pink...

"Tell me, Priscila, do you want my brother inside you?" – she queried, and the cook turned her gaze towards me as my sister’s hand traveled lower, commencing a caress. The woman appeared to be burning with desire.

"Yes, yes, I do aaaah yes I do." – she stated, closing her eyes, savoring the strokes my sister was delivering, her fingers exploring within her...

I approached them; Alessia stepped back. I lowered my pants along with my boxers, climbed atop the woman, and thrust into her in one stroke, eliciting a scream.

I began to move in and out, with her moans and shrieks demanding harder and more.

As I neared completion, I withdrew from her and finished across her chest and face, marking her with my release.

I adjusted my clothing and turned around; my sister observed keenly, then stepped forward and untied the woman from the bed.

"Go take a shower, and get started on dinner – my brother is hungry." – She commanded while my sweet sister straightened my attire.

"Yes, Miss!" – the cook gathered her clothing from the floor, exited my sister's bedroom naked, and with a vast grin.

"I doubt Mom would appreciate seeing her like that!" – I remarked, with a grin.

"You didn't hold back; what about your love for Stefy?" – she asked, drawing closer to me; we hugged each other tightly.

"Stefy has a boyfriend, darling. One does not simply turn down an offer of pleasure." – I replied, and she smiled.

"Yes, have you still not thought about killing him?" – she insists that the best way to have Stefy to myself is by taking out her boyfriend, although, to be truthful, I haven't killed anyone after playing with a toy in that old abandoned warehouse.

"Maybe I will; how long have you been amusing yourself with the cook?" – I asked, recalling the marks on the woman's body.

"A few months, but I'm getting bored. I'll kill her this weekend."

I smiled; my sister always loses interest quickly, even more so than I do – the cook must have truly appealed to her, as the others typically only last a maximum of one week.

"Yes, she doesn't feel as tight anymore!" – I stated, and she smirked.

"Yes, she doesn't. Maybe because I've inserted too many things inside her." – she laughed brazenly – "Sometimes, I wish I had what you have between your legs and could experience doing it."

"Sister, you are so endearing!" – I said sarcastically, and she giggled sweetly. I adore my sister, she's so manipulative that anyone who sees her would think she's the most innocent child alive with those oversized glasses she only wears in public and the twin French braids she always sports. And then how she dresses with those long skirts and knit sweaters, she might seem like a nerd or perhaps a social outcast, but she's neither – although nerdy she is, she's the most intelligent woman I know, aside from my mother and Stefy.