Nervous, distress, and acute. I am. That is not to be confused with madness.

Madness cannot hone the mind, the body, the heart. It is not an expression I could conceive. So why, then, do they say I’ve gone and done it? I’ve gone Crazy! --know I have not. Because this story beats my heart better than any.

It is undeniable that I wasn’t the right child to fit the right role. An eldest son not privy to his life --Hush!

I was well over the times when I wished I were but a number. Eighteen is not so significant. I came to learn that on the day I rid myself of my catalyst.

The news of my mother’s passing was a jolly.

It was delivered as she was in front of me, laid bare by a man I could call father better than my Father. He was a stranger I met that day.

My Father was a freelancer. Most of our family’s money came from the other side. Mother took pride in that; her spoiled self was unable to treat herself any less than a queen.

With the little money Father had, I remember fondly of those times when he bought me toys --Mother would never. With the expenses, he bought ingredients at the cheapest store in the cheapest area. Mother doesn’t provide much.

He was a great cook, or so my virgin tongue said. The flavors of beef were not well defined in my day. It was poached poultry that was present at every meal to be touched all over.

Occasionally, we’d go over to a friend’s house when they invited us.

It changed all the time.

I didn’t know which was the friend, and which was just another guest. But that time was different as it marked my graduation.

Entering the home, the stranger greeted us. In a chef’s hat and tunic to match, he looked like someone you’d see on television. In fact, I think I’d seen him before on the big screen. His name was associated a lot with lamb sauce for a reason unbeknownst to me.

It was a big house --a mansion. For many including myself, I believed it would be my first and last time to step foot in such a thing. But seeing Mother’s pleasure as she trod across the purple carpets locked my jaw. There was no permission to be happy.

Many guests had come to this occasion. My Father included.

But the event that started as a cooking competition would turn out the best. For others, it was a nightmare. --Me, a momentous occasion.

The stranger had gathered a lot of people from around the world to find out who was the best chef. Apparently, Mother had written Father’s name down without him knowing.

There were no other kids around which induced my sister’s moodiness.

The stranger introduced the idea of the competition to us in a grand speech.

The only voice I heard by my side was money.

My father stood at the forefront of the stadium as an opponent stood at the other end.

Poultry, the stranger said.

To which my father went immediately, pulling out a featherless bird from the fridge.

In seconds, he had deconstructed the bird into parts, and parts into pieces.

The other was struggling. It looked like his first time breaking down a chicken, unlike Father.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

So Father gained a thousand dollars, something worth half a month’s pay to him, in the fraction of a minute. I could see how elated he was until he met my Mother in the eye. I hated that I could understand that look. At my age, I shouldn’t have. But it was clear as day to me --the true nature of this wicked woman. The same mountain that carried its hikers was the same mountain that blew them off its cliffs.

The opponent was escorted out by what looked to be butlers. That face of his was depressing, but not as much as when he knew what was coming for him. I still imagine it to this day. What was his face like at the time? Only the butlers knew. They saw to it. --everyone’s last.

No one could follow them, as we were all locked to our seats by seat belts, restraining our interaction with the play.

The next opponent stepped up to the stage. I believe I’ve also seen him on the telly.

Filet mignon, the stranger said.

And immediately, that chef dove into the fridge to pull out ingredients. One of which, a circular slab of meat. At the time, it was the prettiest object I had ever seen because I had yet to see all the shit in this world.

While the opposing chef was already cooking the steak, Father was rummaging through the fridge. He took a step back to watch the chef do his thing, only then did he pull the steak out of the fridge.

Much like me, he was ignorant. --A disgusting thing to see in a superman.

He quickly got to cooking as he threw the meat directly onto the pan, igniting the flames only seconds after.

The chef got a spoon and put a cube of butter as well as other garnishes and herbs in his pan as he started scooping the melted butter on top of the steak.

Father in retaliation grabbed a handful of salt and sprinkled it.

Once the chef was done, he took the steak out, but did not ring the bell to signify his finishing. I believed it was his way of throwing pity at Father who started later than him.

And Father, who was single-mindedly focused on the winnings, was blinded.

As the hot air was sucked away by the ventilators, he switched off the heat and placed the steak directly on the plate, decorating it with a few herbs. Without hesitation, he rang the bell.

The stranger came to judge, cutting it open expertly with a knife that ate through flesh.

Splitting it open from the middle revealed a meat cooked thoroughly throughout. A beautiful grey as the juices oozed onto the plate like a glistening syrup.

‘He’s done it,’ I thought. He won again.

I wanted to wake up then and there to congratulate him, but the knocking of the reaper kept me in place.

The stranger walked slowly to the opposing chef’s plate as he inspected it.

No juices had stained the white plate.

With the knife, he struck down and split it open decisively.

In there, was a rawness that spanned from wall to wall. It did not ooze out as many juices as Fathers did, leading me to believe he had won by a landslide.

But in the deciding moment, he lost.

He lost.

My eyes darted after him as he was taken by the butlers.

‘Where are you bringing him?’ I finally asked to no one’s content.

So I got up and followed them.

And outside they went, into the shadows of the night.

One of them pushed Father down to the concrete as another whipped out a tool that anyone could recognize. A tool with a handle and a pipe-like barrel.

Without uttering the slightest murmurs, Father had died that day.

I wasn’t happy.

I wasn’t sad.

Mother had a grin on her face. Her ignorance of the matter correlated with the pleasure of receiving Father’s money. So I grabbed a knife from the stage and stabbed her.

I shut the tip into where her heart should have been, though it wasn’t there. Blood spilled from her eyes as she laughed at me.

The last punishment was one I wanted to save for later and postpone indefinitely, but I couldn’t do that. So she died that day too.

My sister… She was a scarred hostage, sculpted by my Mother. I had pity, but not enough to care.

So I left her alone.

“Y-you’re a psychopath!”

There were no words of encouragement, but I went up to the stage anyway.

The stranger on the other hand, greeted me with an encouraging smile as the next round started.

A smile perverted through my tightly knit pair of teeth as I rested the knife on the cutting board.

Because I had dignity to uphold.

***

‘Fuck.’

I looked around my surroundings to get a sense of where I was.

The library.

I wouldn’t be sleeping again anytime soon.