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.
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