Cenra sat with his eyes down cast, quivering with something he had always had on his mind; acidity. His drooping eyelids were puffed, so very blotchy and red. And yet, his eyes still allowed the wetness to slide down his cheeks. Down, down they slid ever so softly along the path of wetness that was already on his cheeks. He sat, folding his body over himself, his knees pulled against his chest. His breath ragged, he sat there, huddling against himself, breathing the cold air. He shivered, huddled against the rage, the lasting rage in this young boy's head.
Here he sat, all by his lonesome self, without a shield to his inner emotions. This small child, oh so young, almost nine, had beheld somewhat of a tragedy. Closed away, locked in his prison cell of a room, he contemplated running, disappearing. He set his small head between his knees, his pale, ever so pale knees, allowing himself to cry more. He wept for the soul he had not been given from God, the loss of everyone around him astounding. He pitied himself. He pitied everyone around him. He never thought he would be able to survive the despair stuffing his chest. He continued to breath raggedly.
The room was dark, grays and blacks contradicting each other. His once childish playroom looked like a tomb, him being the only surviving soul in this entire room. It would have been a traditional child's room, except for the colors and the bodies thrown across the floor. His mother lay beside his bed, her throat stained within a river of blood. Her blue eyes so wide, so trusting. Her pale lips open, as if she gasped for breath. Yet, he knew she would never fill her lungs with oxygen again. His father, strewn across from him, holding his chest, he had been the first to die, the coldest of them all, his body deserved to be cold for he knew he had never been human.
Around him, closest, was his sister, Cassie. Dear Cassie. Only five, she looked so beautiful. Brown hair strung with curls, tied on a bow behind her head. Her soft, heart shaped face. He raised his head to look at the destruction around him. He looked at Cassie. Her white socks and shoes had been pulled off, which he had used to stop the bleeding. He sighed as he went back to looking at her. She had died slowly, since she had been stabbed in the head. He could almost hear here last regard breath as she closed her eyes.
Sinners always died with their eyes open. His mother and father had died with their eyes wide open. He couldn't help but laugh. Sinners? Monsters. They had been evil monsters. Blood sucking demons. Soul stealing creatures. He turned to look at his arm. He traced the brutal teeth marks. Bloodied and raw, the teeth marks had punctured true and fierce. His father had been able to force his blood down Cenra's throat before he died. He had died cackling at him as he slowly bled to death. He couldn't help but stroke it, wishing the pain he knew he was in to begin. He couldn't help but scream as it started. Alone and scared, he shot up and ran towards the door. He needed to burn the house. He glanced at Cassie, her body bloodied. She had been a monster too. He opened the door hastily and in the process, hit his murdered father's head with a sickening crack. He paused and watched it tear off his shoulders, rolling under his bed. He glanced around before grabbing the briefcase his great grandfather had given him. He would need it.
He turned and grabbed it off the wooden shelf, lugging it down the creaky wooden steps. He paused and walking back in, grabbed his Phantom of the Opera record, his heart weighing. He felt he should take it, since like Eric he was a monster, a murderer. Evil. He shook him self, fighting against his guilty tears. His sleeping bloodlust had already consumed him and know he was forced to face the truth. He was a monster, and he too would have to be destroyed. He felt he should flee. He himself had come to dream that he would be able to be himself. In time, he would destroy himself too. Monster. Evil creature. Murderer.
He turned, slowly grieving and realizing what he had done. He now was an orphan, begrudgingly forced to walk this earth, alone and scared, by himself until he would consume himself. Slowly walking towards those damned stairs, that would force him to be lonely and unforgiving. Taking one long breath, he simply would walk forward and down those stairs.
He picked the old leather briefcase and walked down those stairs, the unforgiving god-damned stairs. He walked towards the shabby kitchen, across from the shabby brown leather couches and passed the shabby red carpets, quilted and patched for over a century. He reached up and ran his hand along the knives, until he found a knife he had used before, just recently. He grabbed it, a butcher's knife, and opening his briefcase, placed it along with his other knives. He grabbed the matches, and went to pick up his coat on the coat hanger. Long and black, he supposed he looked older than he felt. In his head, he despised himself. He sobbed and begged the monster inside himself to let go. Of course, the monster refused the child. That's why it was a monster. If a child could not persuade it, nothing really could. Nothing ever could change him.
He grabbed his briefcase, the box of matches, and his record. He walked out of the mahogany doors, painted red long ago, that now looked more brown than red. He stepped down into the winter snow, into the savage blizzard. He walked over to the side where the wind didn't blow. He sighed and pulled a match out, striking it. That's it. Burn it. He heard it in his mind and shuddered. He should just let it take him over now, this evil being. This murderous being. This thing. He had heard it speak. And as his heart broke, he lit the match and placed it into a dry piece of wood. The side of the house went up in flames immediately and Cenra turned on his heels and fled, when he heard a shriek come from the one of his old neighbor's screams.
Miss Cornelia. He sighed. His best friend's mother. Fair in her complexion and in her hair color, she scrambled across the street, screaming his mother's name. "Heather. Heather. " She shrieked, stepping onto the curb as she cried desperately. The house was already going up into flames now, as he quickly jumped a fence and climbed up a drain pipe. It took him some time and by the time he had climbed up the drain pipe, the firefighters were already putting out the flames. And there he sobbed, so quietly and so alone, that no one saw the boy on the roof. No one saw Cenra Andrew Wendorf, the once renowned son of Roderick Justin Farrell and Heather Ann Wendorf and the prized older brother of Cassie Samantha Wendorf, sitting atop the roof, bawling as his family and everything he had once cherished burned to the ground.
He glanced at his arm, already swelling and realized, with growing curiosity that perhaps he could bleed to death. He looked away, tearing at his shirt and wrapping it around his arm. No. He deserved a much terrible fate. So much worse that slowly bleeding to death. He wanted pain. Blinding pain. Pain that would make him scream in agony. Make him choke on blood, make him go crazy with pain. But, all he wanted was to die. He glanced around at the people besides his old home.
The Cornelias were there, Roger Cornelia, Melina Cornelia, and Ozona Cornelia, his best friend since the moment he was born. They stood together along with Mr. Donavon, his school teacher- who his father had wanted to kill-and Miss Weber, his nanny when he was a child, along with firefighters. The all sobbed, clutching each other with comfort. Sandy glanced toward the stars and moon, kissing her fingers at the stars.
They had been raised to believe everyone went up to heaven, to the moon and stars and became a star, a shining star, full of innocence. She glanced at the shadow of him and gaped at him. He pulled his finger to his lip, in a 'don't say a word' motion. She nodded vigorously. He blond hair hung in her pale face and she smiled ever so gently, blowing him a soft kiss. "Goodbye." He whispered, and she mouthed it back to him, the same way they had always said goodbye when they went to leave each other after a hard day of play. But, he knew that this was the last farewell he would ever get.
He waited until they had all left. He waited for what felt like an eternity, for the firemen took turns surveying the scene. No bodies were found, except for the daughter. She had somehow been preserved, with her hair seared severely. Cenra had to hold back an agonizing sob when he saw her, so pale and lifeless, and bald,with a very burnt sculp.
He pressed his small childish-like fingers into his palms so hard they bled. He wept, so forcefully, he wondered why no one heard him. He wept until they left. The small boy stood up, like a pale skeleton, his body still shaking with sobs. Many could have seen him. The pale, raven haired boy, so skinny and frail it seemed he was made of paper. But, no one did. He went to the edge, where the back yard was. He quickly touched his coat and grabbed his briefcase, flinging himself into the snow. He fell and raised his right arm to catch himself, where his bite was. A few drops of blood fell into the snow. He stood and rewrapped his bandage.
He walked to the gate of the property that led to the woods. He climbed over it, the old wood causing splinters to stick into the softness of his skin. But what he didn`t know, was that they disappeared as fast as they had come. His body answered with a wave of nausea as the wood in a half a second deteriorated into his body. The molecules of the wood flowed into his blood vessels, mingling with the venom. He choked and threw up the blood filled with splinters and as he began to breathe again, he checked his hands. No splinters.
His eyebrows raised and he couldn't help but feel the bile rise in his throat. He heaved again, choking on it. He was already becoming a monster. He slung the briefcase between both his hands, racing into the woods.
Dear God, he screamed frantically in his head, as his speed had increased 30 times more than he'd been able to with his normal eight year old legs. His throat began to thirst and he screamed, loudly, because he knew what his body so craved. He turned around and heard the rustle of a man in his tent. Damn you, he screamed to the monster as he ripped the tent and plunged his teeth into the man's neck. He heard the man's gurgle before his heart stopped beating. In seconds, he was dead and Cenra backed away, sobbing. He clutched the briefcase and ran, ran away from his morals and his murders. I have murdered four people, he thought, sobbing uncontrollably. I am evil.
He ran, he ran away, out of the state, out of his old home in Washington, running up, farther, until he was in Canada. He saw the lush of trees, until he felt someone grab him. Someone so strong, he was breathless. He turned, bearing his teeth at the man. "God damn." The man hissed, unleashing his fist into the poor boy's face. He screamed so loudly. "Shut the hell up, bloodsucker." The man seethed as he dragged Cenra to a jeep, a dark green jeep that blended in with the forest. He couldn't see. He was blind and everything was blurry as he looked around for anything to protect himself with him. There was nothing to help him escape this angel who had come to spill the blood of he, a devil spawn.
He sat, his arms pulled to his chest as his shoulders shook with sobs he yet to unleash. "Oh, Mama. My wretched soul. Oh papa. Damn me. Oh Mama, Papa, Cassie, my sister, why?" He shrieked, rocking himself as the man tossed him in the trunk. Cenra looked up from his blubbering.
"Kill me. " He whispered. "If you are going to kill me, kill me now, so slow and painfully, that I beg you to not. Oh please, angel, please. Spare my soul torment." He shrieked, shaking with the effort from holding himself back from the man's throat. His blood smelled rich and so wonderful, like pudding or Christmas dinner. He licked his lips to get rid of the salt and left over blood that probably covered his thin lips.
The man smiled. "The name's Sardinian, lad. Sardinian Macabee. Don't worry. I have some plans with your damned soul that shall make you even more damned." He said, smiling wide. The man's smile was crooked and filled with malice, but Cenra shrieked at him. "Don't let me live, angell. Please don't." He sobbed and Sardinian paused, sighing. "Sorry, lad." He mumbled as he locked the lid with a final clicking sound, leaving Cenra to his shrieking, his anger, and his swelling loss and grief at what he had done.