Arthur liked to pride himself on his ability to hide his desires. Every time he found himself a potential prey, he mimicked the attitude of his peers in order to avoid the mess of post-homicide. He further liked to pride himself on the fact he was an alternative version of a psychopath.
Like most, he always had an attraction to violence. Yet he never expressed it. Not once did he step on a single ant or carry the temptation to mutilate his pet cat. It was never animals that he wanted to kill.
It was the human race.
Something about sharing the world with other people disgusted him. The way they moved or spoke left him wishing to escape from life. It was a fear. His mother took him to see a doctor once in hope of a successful diagnosis as his introverted state worried her.
They called it anthropophobia.
It was the pathological fear of people or human company. It seemed obvious. Yet there was an underlying darkness to his mind. There was a sense of hate that would bite his neutral thoughts. The moments of normality were devoured by loathing in its purest form.
But there was a time he was stunned by his malice.
As a child in school, he was never unpopular nor had the reputation others wished for. His skill for manipulating his peers to believe he was like them bettered continuously. Arthur, in his youngest years, learned rapidly all things academic yet when creativity was expected, he was lost. A task was given to his class. He must produce an item relating to what was best about his family. That would mean the relationship between his mother and himself. They were the only ones. The only issue was what the rest had to offer.
Family trees with branches thick from powder paint, floating hearts above the heads of siblings and crooked smiles filling faces on all box-shaped bodies. Love choked the room until his name was called.
“Arthur, what have you got today?” his teacher gestured for him to stand up.
Despite the juxtaposition spurted on his paper, he felt no anxiety.
He felt nothing at all.
Revealing his piece, no responses were given. His teacher questioned the content of the drawing. His response was simple.
“This is my mother.”
“What do you mean?” Wide-eyed with distress she became concerned.
The paper contained a chaotic pool of crimson, centre-staged. A figure, natural for you to adore- Arthur viewed her as dead. His teacher was unaware of the true meaning and spoke reassuring words to herself.
In fact, it was his mother who he despised most of all.