3. THREE
THREE
SNOWMAN
Midnight had struck, and the faintest tick of the second hand echoed within the kitchen's silence. I watched the cigarette pinched between my fingers, its smoke tail curling lazily. Its glowing pulsed with every jolty breath I took, while, hunched against the table rim, felt its corners dig deep into my palms.
I almost got caught. I almost fucking got caught.
The thought clawed at my mind, refusing to let go. My teeth sank into the inside of my cheek, the sharp sting grounding me momentarily. Years— years— of discipline, of keeping everything contained, nearly undone because of a single glance. Because of her.
Fuck.
The image of her was seared into my brain. Those eyes, so limpid, so knowing, stripped me bare in an instant. She was beautiful. Too beautiful. The kind of beautiful that could see through a person entirely.
I inhaled again, the smoke heavy, hot, and acrid in my lungs. It coated my tongue with a bitter film, but it wasn't enough to drown her out; wasn't enough to push the thoughts away.
"Fuck!"
The word exploded from me, loud and raw, into the fragile silence.
I slammed the cigarette into the ashtray, grinding it out with unnecessary anger. The filter crumbled under my thumb, and I watched as the ember died, its light turning out. Just like I had to turn every reckless thought about her. But I couldn't turn away. Her face haunts me, like a ghost that I didn't want to let go of. She saw me, not the surface, not the mask.
I could tell by the way she looked at me. She saw the cracks. She saw what I worked so hard to bury. And that terrified me more than anything else.
I paced to the center of the living room, the hollow creak of the floorboards cutting through the suffocating silence. The room was scant, just as it always would be. A couch sagged in the middle. Scratched coffee table that could tell a thousand stories of careless use. A single lamp that seemed to cast shadows against the peeling paper on the wall. Never had much, and never asked for more than I needed. And yet with so little, I carried so much. This was my curse, my birthright.
My mind filled with the picture of my father, a man whose sins had been passed on to me like heirlooms, polished and sharpened through years of handling. I was eleven years old when it all came to light.
I was eleven when he showed me what lived in the blood that coursed through my veins. He hadn't taught me to fight it— no , he'd nurtured it, made it a part of me, made it— me.
And my mother? She hadn't saved me. She hadn't even tried. She'd turned a blind eye, her silence complicit, her inaction deafening. And now, here I was, a living, breathing manifestation of everything they'd left behind. A monster dressed in their sins.
I hated it. Hated me.
By day, I played the part. Just another person, blending into the crowd, invisible. But by night, as soon as dark fell, the truth surged to the surface. The memories. The urges. The visions of blood. They swallowed me. I couldn't escape them, no matter how hard I tried.
I blamed my father for planting this sickness inside me. I blamed my mother for letting it take root. And I blamed myself for not being strong enough to cut it out, for not being able to stop it.
My fists clenched at my sides, standing in the middle of the room as my chest rose and fell with each uneven breath. The compulsion seared under my skin, restless and insistent. It whispered to me, tempting me, promising release. I knew the cost. I'd seen it play out a hundred times before. But it was still there. And I knew that no matter how tightly I tried to hold myself together, the cracks would keep spreading. The curse was part of me now, as undeniable as the blood in my veins. I was ill. I knew it. And there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.
The only sound in the room beneath my boots was the soft hum of the radio above. The red carpet, worn and frayed from years of use, hid the weight of secrets. I crouched, my fingers curling into the edge of the rug, pulling it to one side. The old fabric bunched against the sofa as I folded it away, revealing the carved square of wood beneath. The edges of the hidden door had been a bit rough, but it had served well. In the middle, it glittered with a round iron handle and dimmed light. I grasped the handle, my palm feeling the coolness of the metal, and pulled.
I lifted it and swung it to the side, the wooden lid creaking with the weight of what was beneath. Before me yawned the opening, a passage framed by rough wooden stairs leading down. I stood and placed the cigarette between my lips. As I lit it, the cherry-red tip of it seemed to glow in the dark as I inhaled. Then I stepped down, each creak of the stairs awakening the silence.
The air was heavier down here, thick with the smell of wood, rust, and something more metallic. The walls were close, almost suffocating, and the dim bulb that hung from the ceiling cast long shadows on the dirty floor. Chains swayed gently in the air, dangling like silent sentinels from the beams above. In the center of the room was a wooden table, its surface scarred with years of use.
I walked to it, the cigarette hanging loosely from my lips. The tools were laid out precisely, their sharp edges gleaming faintly under the weak light. Next to the radio was my mask, a plain white one, almost featureless apart from openings for the eyes and small holes for the nose. It was ordinary and that was why it worked. It hid my face, and in doing so, stripped me of anything human.
I stubbed out the cigarette on the table and began to strip to my underwear. The chill in the room immediately pricked my skin. Reaching for the neatly folded black jumpsuit on the table, I slid into it. The nylon clung to my skin, waterproof, erasing the last vestiges of softness from me.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror propped against the wall, and the reflection staring back was my worst nightmare, an avenger, but not the kind to save anybody. No, I was the villain in this story, the bad kind.
I turned to the table that was next to the wall, a tilt in my head so that the woman bound tightly to it could be regarded full on. Against dark wood, her body seemed very pale, her skin bruised, wrists and ankles tied rather tightly by coarse rope. She was nude, bruising, shaking all over. Only her red eyes looked up at me amidst the swelled face, from multiple hours of crying. Her muffled sobs came through with weak strength through the duct tape that was pulled over her mouth.
"Fuck, momma, " I rasped, the words dry and hoarse through the mask. I tilted my head, letting the notes of the song Sweet Dreams waft from the radio. "Being a killer is a full-time job."
Her body flinched at my words, trying in vain to pull away. I walked to the tools, selecting a needle and a tube. As I tested the needle's sharpness against the pad of my glove, I turned back to her.
"You know," I said, "when I read your file, I thought, Wow, this poor woman's been through a lot. " I chuckled, a sound that echoed off the walls. "But then, I saw him. "
Her head was shaking violently, desperate denials muffled behind the tape.
"Little boy," I continued, my voice lowering, "bruises covering a small body. Fearful, wide eyes stared back at me, screaming for help."
I exhaled, "Do you know what he gave as his explanation?" I leaned in closer to hear her whisper, my face inches short of touching hers. " I fall down the stairs. "
Her cries grew louder, her head thrashing. I reached for the duct tape, peeling it off in one sharp motion. Her scream ripped through the room, shrill, but my gloved hand clamped down over her mouth before she could finish.
" Tsk, tsk, tsk, " I shushed her. "Typical. But no one can hear you, momma. You're eight feet underground."
I let my hand slip away slowly, giving her the chance to speak.
"Now," I said, "if you'll be a good girl and listen, maybe I'll be fast with you. Anything to confess?"
She gasped, her sobs coming in heaving bursts. "Please," she choked out. "Please let me go."
I tilted my head, and my tone dropped to a dangerous whisper. "So, nothing to confess?"
She shuddered and the tears streamed down her cheeks. "I will," she said hastily. "I will... just please... let me go."
My jaw clenched as I leaned in closer.
"I'll think about it," I muttered.
"I…" Her voice was quaking, her body shaking. "Maybe…"
"SPEAK!" I barked, my voice cutting through her hesitation like a blade.
"I pushed him!" she shouted, the words tumbling out in a wild rush. "He wasn't listening, and I just—just exploded! But that doesn't make me a bad mother!"
I froze, tilting my head. "The problem is," I whispered in her ear, "you're not his mother."
"I am!", she cried. "I am!"
"Nah," I said only, stepping back as her sobs grew louder.
She begged, her words incoherent, a tangle of pleas and apologies. But the sound faded into the background as I focused on the task ahead. Her tears fell freely, her voice cracking under the weight of her desperation.
"Please," she whimpered, "please."
"Hmmm. I'm still thinking about it," I muttered, tilting my head to one side as I watched her squirm against the bindings. Her tears streamed freely now, cutting streaks through the grime on her face.
"I took him when he was five," she blurted, her voice shaking. "I never knew he'd be such a pain in the ass, but please—"
A thin, mirthless smile curled around my lips, and I leaned the needle toward her arm. "He is a child, not an animal," I said, ridiculously calm.
Her head thrashed about, desperation etched into every strained movement. "Nooo, please," she screamed, her voice cracking.
"You see," I said, crossing my arms, letting the needle hover just above her skin, "I know you're lying."
Her breathing hitched, the words tumbling from her lips in a frantic rush. "No, I swear! I—"
"You took him when he was a baby," I said, cutting her off. My voice was ice, flat. "From a nursing home." The needle pricked her skin, sliding in gently as I began to draw blood into the tube. It flowed in a slow, crimson stream, dripping into the bucket beneath her.
"They were after you for poisoning those poor little angels . And then when the walls started closing in on you, you took one with you. You stole him—and turned his life into one big misery."
Her sobs grew louder, her head shaking violently. "I was helping him," she said, her voice cracking. "I wanted to make him better!"
I scoffed, my eyes rolling. "Oh, how sweet." Sarcasm oozed out of my voice. "You made him better by breaking bones, pushing him like a dog?" The dark chuckle escaped my lips. "You disgust me."
Her eyes turned hard, flashing defiance, even as her strength ebbed. "You're no better," she spat out. "Monster!"
I laughed, and it sounded hollow in the room. "Yeah," I said; my tone came out sharp and cutting. "I am."
It is people like her that monsters are born of, made by their hands, shaped by their cruelty, and unleashed upon the world. I had no illusions about what I was: no heart, no conscience, just a purpose .
"Killer!" she screamed, the word torn from her, tattered and weak. She spat at me, spittle wetting her lips.
"Yep," I replied, smirking. Her words didn’t cut. They didn’t even graze.
"Why are you doing this?" she croaked, her voice little more than a whisper now. "What did I ever do to you?"
"You didn't," I said, leaning forward, my voice low even. "But someone else did." I chuckled darkly and shook my head. "And I'll be damned if I let it happen to that boy from anyone else, either."
Her eyes fluttered shut, her body trembling as her strength was drained away.
"Fuck you," she whispered, the words faint and slurred.
"Yeah, bitch ," I muttered, leaning down until I was eye-to-eye with her. "Fuck you too."
I straightened, turning to the table as her body stilled behind me. Lighting another cigarette, I inhaled deeply, letting the smoke curl out of my nostrils as I tugged the mask from my face. The cool air kissed my skin, and my reflection in the mirror caught my eye.
The face hiding behind the mask wasn't the monster I wore for the world; it was the broken boy, hurt by all those who were supposed to care for him. The mask made it easier to do what I had to do. Beneath it, though, vulnerable, I still held the scars of a stolen childhood. They had made me this way. And if I was going to hell, I'd make damn sure to take every one of them with me. Monsters aren't born; they're made. And, I'll be damned, I had been a good one.
The space was silent, while the heater hummed softly and blood occasionally dripped into the bucket. I leaned back in a rickety chair, its legs groaning under my weight, and lit another cigarette. The smoke swirled in slow patterns in the hot air while I watched the blood seep steadily into the second bucket.
Draining them made the job neater, and more effective. Once the blood was gone, it was far easier to separate them, piece by piece, less mess, and splatter. I had prepared the room before sitting, wrapping the space around her in thick plastic curtains that hung from the ceiling. The warmth helped slow the pumping of her heart and made sure the blood flowed at just the right pace. I learned a long time ago, that it was easier this way.
The file sat on the table before me, its edges smeared from weeks of handling. I flipped it open and turned the page over the page of photographs and notes that were in handwriting until I found her name in printing. I read it out loud,"Sigrid Halvorsen."
The name hung in the air like a question.
Her story lay before me, scant as it was: orphaned young. Grew up in a nameless home, her parents unknown. No police record. It would seem that she also had a talent for slipping in and out, leaving no evidence that she was even there. My only picture is the one holding the little boy, the same child now lying beaten and broken in the hospital.
I stared at that photograph, my cigarette burning down to the filter as the memories clawed their way back. In the picture, the boy had such hollow eyes; clinging onto her, screaming at me from the page.
And then, as always, the flashes struck.
I was six years old when my father took me into the woods. He said we were going hunting. I didn't know any better. I thought it was a game, another one of his weird lessons. The hike seemed endless, the trees growing thicker, their shadows darker, until we reached a place where the sunlight no longer broke through.
He spoke coldly, "This is where you will stay. Survive the night. Prove to me you are not weak."
I stared at him, unsure if he was playing, but as he turned and walked away, leaving me in the freezing winter, it became clear this wasn't a game. My breath hung in the air like smoke, my body shaking as I went to find some cave to stay in. I gathered sticks with trembling fingers, scraping stones together until sparks finally caught.
But it was hunger, not the cold, that made me like an animal. And when I saw the deer, I didn't think. I only lunged forward in a wild, desperate lunge and sank my teeth into its flesh. Raw. Bloody. My stomach churned, but hunger won out over disgust.
When my father came back the next morning, all he said was, "I'm glad you're not dead." That's all. No congratulations, no affection, just apathy. He was pleased I had lived—not because I was his son, but because I had proved useful. That night I knew what he wanted me to be.
I tore my gaze from the photo, my chest tight with the anger I hadn't felt in years. Snow had always been a cruel reminder of him, of the life he forced me into. But it also reminded me of my brother.
Only one happy memory...
The snowmen we built together, how we snuck coals and carrots from the kitchen and argued over who could do the better face, and how we laughed, our gloves soaked through, making lumps of snow into something we'd call perfect.
But perfection was not a word for it, not yet. I came to understand that too late. Snowmen don't come alive when buttons are stolen and sticks have been carefully carved, they only begin to breathe when made of human flesh. Human parts. For then, and only then does it fully come into the aspect of chaos that's buried inside.
I stood, walked toward the plastic curtains, and glanced back at the bucket beneath her. Nearly full. The sight didn't bother me. It was just part of the process.
"Call me a monster if you want," I muttered, softer, staring at her lifeless body. "But the monster is just an image I want you to see."