The Devil's Apprentice

"One slice, two slices, three slices, four..five slices, six slices, seven slices...more."

Emmanuel smiled at each new strike he made, eyes crinkly watching as blood drained with a certain delicacy down bare porcelain skin. He could feel the elation that ran with persistence through his veins, he could feel the excitement that bore like a nail through his brain.

It felt good, to be in control, to hold the life of a person in the very palm of his hand.

The blood, it did nothing but egg him on, the whimpers, they only served as encouragement and the struggles, oh he could literally get off on that one.

His victim, his prey was currently tied to a chair, lips slipped ajar, letting loose heavy breaths of air, eyes casted down, signifying the weary state of her physicality.

She was truly a beauty, as pretty as a gem with all that blood on her, all those slices and scratches, all those bruises that resulted in black and blue.

Oh god did they make her look extravagant, more flamboyant than the gold watch on his wrist, more expensive than the suit covered in her blood that he wore.

He wish he could keep her alive just to punish the innocence that reigned within her out, wish upon the shooting stars in the night sky that instead of whimpering like a puppy she'd screamed out in pain.

That'd awaken the real demon within him, the one that laid asleep in a pool of vengeance waiting for another segment of his revenge.

That same demon that someone so familiar yet so strange had planted like the roots of a tree within him.

He could remember a time when his screams were what brought that person joy, when his tears were what made them smile. He could remember it all, but how could he dare to forget when that cruel person was his very father?

That man was certainly under the influence of hell. Emmanuel couldn't interpret where he got his drive from, he was just plain evil, Satan's very son!

He had been seven at the time and his name wasn't yet Emmanuel, he was Jason, Jason Miller and his father had loathed him with every fibre in his body. Emmanuel could tell, for his father would look at him as if he was a piece of shit and he'd treat him like that too.

He had a reason, but it wasn't a valid reason for a father to hate his child.

It was because Emmanuel couldn't talk. He was dumb and his father engraved in his head that not being to speak was a handicap that ensured weakness.

At first, Emmanuel didn't believe, but in time, he did.

The beatings...

The bloody gashes...

The whip marks...

They made him have a steady conviction in every single word his father uttered.

But even then his father's hate spiralled into a tree that started to bear fruit as soon as Emmanuel turned ten.

The beatings got worst and Emmanuel was coerced to sleep in a dungeon, or rather to him it was a cage.

A cage that only his father could enter and whenever he did, Emmanuel's fear would rise to its pinnacle, for a tool that ensured the loss of blood would always be in his father's right hand.

He'd cry, he'd scream, but that only seemed to encourage his father, so instead he'd scream and cry silently like the dumb kid he was until the beatings became familiar.

The pain too, it became an addiction that he came to desire and the blood that came along with it was like a reward for withstanding that same pain.

He became sick, sick enough to hurt himself when his father wasn't around.

Sick enough to smile as blood glided with persistence down his skin.

He'd sometimes lick it, taste it and of course he'd swallow it. He was wholly in love with it, and because of that he'd do anything to have it and apart of that anything laid the death of his father because on a night as cold as winter and as dark as the sky without the moon, the stars and the sun, he killed him.

That night, a knife as sharp as shards and as pointed as a stone had been in his hand, dripping the remnants of his father's blood.

That night was exhilarating, exciting and somehow it had awakened something evil, something maliciously vile within him.

That night, he had attained the knowledge that it wasn't the pain that he liked, it was the blood, the pretty red substance that tasted like metal.

It didn't have to be his blood, it could be anyone's, thus the beginning of the serial killer that had previously laid asleep within him.

People in the neighbourhood started to die night by night and every time he killed, his crave for blood augmented. He couldn't get tired of it, he never wanted to and that's why on that dark night when he couldn't find himself a victim, he in turn became that victim.

He had sliced his own skin with his own knife and blood had trickled until he found it hard to breathe.

The pain had been prominent too, so tangible that he couldn't even whimper. He knew what was happening, he was going to die and that was okay because he really did deserve to.

At least that was what he thought before his savior had descended from nothing but darkness. It was a man, but honestly he had looked more like a monster.

The look in his eyes had reminded Emmanuel of the evil look his father would give him, but even so, he didn't hesitate to grab his hand when he had offered it.

It was as cold as ice and his grip was torturingly tight, but ignoring that, Emmanuel had instead focused on the words that later left his lips.

"Son of Satan, you have proven yourself worthy of the blood that taints your hands and worthy of a new start. Just a drop of blood on this paper and a new life, a new name and a new face will be yours. I will give you a voice and you will never grow hungry for blood again."

He withdrew his other hand from behind his back and in his empty palm, a paper appeared. "A drop of blood, just a drop of blood and you my dear son will be my apprentice."

With dry and cracked lips, Emmanuel could've only asked..."who...w-who are you?"

"I...I am the monster that lives within you, I am the devil."

From that night on, Jason Miller wasn't Jason anymore, he was Emmanuel, Emmanuel Monto.

He was given a voice to speak, a new face and a new name and as Emmanuel Monto, he started a new, but similarly bloody path.

His first victim had been a girl called Crystel, her name had appeared as a tattoo on the back of his hand and when he had gruesomely killed her, it had disappeared and a new name appeared.

The people he killed were always suicidal and so was the girl who sat before him, eyes barely open and body visibly shaking.

His knife sliced at her skin for the eleventh time and a subdued whimper descended from her dry throat. This was boring, she wasn't struggling, wasn't screaming, but either way, she was bleeding and that was enough motivation to continue his gruesome torture.

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AN/|\ Yes, I know, he's clearly psycho, but at least he has his reasons, what do you think?

AND WHEN I CALLED HIM 'SON OF SATAN' I DIDN'T MEAN IT LITERALLY!

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I'LL UPDATE SOON:)