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My story started from a very young age—7 to be exact. See, my parents weren’t exactly the best people, sure they took care of me, and I'd see my mom one week and my dad the other. That’s how it always had been, they never liked each other, when I was born, they were already divorced. It was pretty common at this time to have divorced parents so I should have found it okay, but I was tired of it.
My mother didn’t care about me and always told me to bother my father with everything while he always reeked like beer and never did anything. Some days he didn’t even bother to cook, then I'd just go to my room to count the little bumps on the ceiling, I never managed to count them all though. I always fell asleep, I'm pretty sure it could be hundreds maybe even, thousands.
This night my mother had bought me to my father, tonight he was back home around 6pm. I had seen him going to the bathroom though I did not think much of it when he didn’t return, perhaps he had fallen asleep. I think it was a few hours later that night, it had been dark already and I went to the bathroom, already forgotten my father was there. It wasn’t pleasant to find my father laying limp on the ground, his chest didn’t rise and fall like it was supposed to. It took me a while to figure out he was death, I hadn’t seen a death body before.
I think I was supposed to feel something, concern, sadness, just an emotion, anything. Instead, I just stood there before carefully taping his mouth shut, I had heard my teacher say it was forbidden to communicate with the death. I don’t know how many days it had been, but I felt hungry, I knew my mother wouldn’t come yet. My father hadn’t gone to the store either so there was no food at home. I could manage a day but not so much after, I did something not even God could forgive me for.
That night I took a knife from the kitchen counter and went back to the bathroom; father was now pale and cold. Carefully, I pressed the blade to his skin and took a piece. I still remember how it tasted, bitter yet so sweet, maybe I even liked it. After a few days I was sure my mother would come home soon, I wondered if she’d taste the same as father, or would she taste differently? I wouldn’t let her live, I was sure of that now.
She wouldn’t forgive me for doing this to my father and I was sick of her, sick of this life. When I heard a knock on the door I first took a moment to grab the knife, I had used to it cut father into pieces though still a lot of his body was left whole. When I opened the door and mother went in, I quickly closed it and pushed her. Before she could say anything, I had already pierced the blade into her throat and watched as her soul slowly left her eyes, felt how she went limp, stopped struggling, wasn’t breathing.
I enjoyed it, her suffering. After all these years of me being ignored, hurt, it was finally her who was hurt now. Just like with father, I took a roll of tape and taped her mouth shut. I laid her body in the bedroom, she didn’t like father, so I don’t think she’d appreciate it if I laid her in the bathroom. For weeks, maybe months I stayed in the apartment, soon enough the bodies were starting to rot. I couldn’t stay here, I knew someday I would have to leave so I did.
Most nights I'd make myself comfortable in a corner somewhere in streets or alleyways. Soon enough when years passed by and I grew older, I found a job, made money. It took a while but after long working I could afford to rent a small apartment, not too small and not too big, it was normal, it felt normal. I did not get rid of my habit of eating human meat.
As long as I didn’t get caught it didn’t matter, it tasted better than regular meat. I lived a pretty normal life, of course i drank but I would never drink as much as father did, I would never want to end up like him. Life was normal, until one particular night came, it was storming outside. Not the kind of storm where you couldn’t go outside, just now and then you could see lightening flashing in the corner of your eyes.
I just wanted to throw my trash away and quickly go inside again. I didn’t like being wet but I hear a cry that night, not loud but it was there, in a box. I took the box and opened it, to my surprise it was an actual child, maybe a few months old. I couldn’t tell, I haven’t seen many babies before. I took the child in my arms, it was so fragile, so easy to just snap. I didn’t know what came into me, but someone had clearly abandoned it here, I took it inside.
I didn’t want to kill the poor thing, maybe I killed people, but I wasn’t a monster. Only a day after I took the baby, who I figured was a boy, to the doctor. The doctor didn’t ask too many questions, he probably had seen lots of sick babies this period in time, winters were always like this. The doctor had asked me his name, I didn’t think of names, I hadn’t had that much contact with people. I just said the first thing that came up in me; Storm Huxley. I could definitely have chosen a better name, but it had already been said.
His name would now forever be linked to me and the day I found him. It was weird, not an usual name, but the doctor had just nodded that day. Those months I tried and took care of Storm, he wasn’t easy, but it felt comforting having a companion who was as hated as I was.
Years went by and he learned a lot, if he wanted to, I’d let him help cleaning up bodies. He was smart for his age, I never sent him to school, but he observed me a lot. He grew to be a smart kid, helped when he wanted to and was a good companion. I had always told him the truth about how I found him, whatever I did, I didn’t want to lie to the boy. I wouldn’t be like my parents.
I would be myself, Xanthos Huxley. That’s how my story was; however, my story has not ended yet, and the story of Storm has yet to begin.