((Violence and gore warning)) On the First Day of Christmas, I was the Shadow of Death

A Poem by beautifulblade

Christmas serial killer

"Do it."
"Just have some fun; you know you want to."
"Come on, just do it already."

I hear the voices in my head telling me
to unleash the monster inside me.
THEY know that I'm unhappy, especially this time of year-
so much joy and jubilation in the air.
I can't stand it. The world doesn't deserve to be happy.
Nobody does.
How dare they smile at each other with those ungodly grins.
My world is shattered, how can they live with that?
They took my life from me and tore it to pieces,
stepping on them as they fluttered to the ground.
I watch them as they laugh and flit from place to place-
paying absolutely no attention to the shadow in the window.
They make me sick.
The way they walk around with their heads held high-
they think they're so holy and untouchable.
I want to teach them the truth that has been known to me for years:
s**t happens to everyone-
no one is untouchable;
nobody escapes me;
nobody knows me;
nobody wants to.
That's okay...
I like it that way.
That way, nobody will suspect me when the door opens tomorrow.
The scene that lays ahead will shock them.
I wonder how many will have to fight their stomach...
and how many of them will lose?
The stench of death will be joined by that of sickness-
wafting out the door and infecting the nostrils of everyone on the street,
and everyone in the building...
But not me. I will sit in the shadows and watch the disgust roll through,
my nose used to the smell, and my eyes enjoying the scene.

How many will trip over Princess as the walk through the door?
The neighborhood stray whom everyone saw as the self-appointed watch dog...
How many pointless tears will be shed

as they stumble upon the bodies of the family:
Baby Andy laying peacefully in his crib as though sleeping,

but the blood stained teddy bear says otherwise;
Little Susie swinging as she slowly flies around... and around...
suspended from the ceiling fan, her toes not even close to the ground;
Billy outside on his beloved swings set,
tied up like a roasting pig;

the bloody snow below him cradling half of his guts

like a fire cradles coals;
Mommy's in the kitchen making dinner,

unrecognizable through the criss-cross pattern of gashes

that covers her entire body,
the cookie sheet that covers her lap

holds a delightful dessert of Baked Billy- browned to perfection;
and finally, the Mister, the master of the house-
he's sitting on the couch,
watching Susie as she flies a few feet away from him.
He has a clear view into the kitchen, and stares at his wife.
The picture window in front of him paints a beautiful portrait of Billy,
and Baby Andy is merely ten feet

inside the open bedroom door.
Father holds his bloody pacifier in his lap,
his legs and waist tied with razor wire,

and his arms strapped behind his back,
the wire that keeps them in place continues to cut into his chest.
The blood bubbles at his throat with each labored breath he takes,
the bleeding from his severed vocal cord
slowed to prolong his end.
As he takes his last breath,
I smile to myself and agree with the voices:
that was fun. I can't wait til next year.
"Why wait?"
"There's still eleven days of Christmas left..."
"...and nights..."