Blood. The smell is sweet like corn syrup and deeply rich; filled with minerals like iron and dirt and calcium. You like the smell of blood, pooling underneath the sycamore. You like the smell of earth, churned, dewy from an early fall night. It's clear out here. It's clean. And you like the smell of blood.
It hasn't always been like that for you. Not the first child you killed. You were still new to this whole thing, still learning. All you'd ever done before the first kill was read a few books, studied a bit. But actions are actions and words are words. And the first child's blood, bitter sweet wafting into your nose, almost made you puke.
The kid was coming home from some sort of practice: baseball, football, who cared. The point was that it was dark enough to grab him between street lights and he was young enough for this all to work. His blood was rich. So you seized your opportunity and grabbed him and tore him back into the woods. He struggled and you were still naïve but you kept him silent by letting him bite your arm and stabbed his stomach a few dozen times, getting blood everywhere. It was messy but he was dead and soon he would be laid to rest. The truth is you should've been caught. But you had gotten lucky that first time. Parents that didn't pay enough attention to get things going quick enough. Parents that were too poor to find the resources needed. And then you got smarter.
The second time you found the child catching crawfish down by the river bridge. A small child. Someone who should’ve been safe a few blocks from home, catching a few craws. He saw you but that was okay. You were catching craws too. And you told him where to look. You were in the river already, no tracks to leave, and you told him where you found some fish. So he looked down, leaning forward as he did. And when he leaned towards you, you grabbed him and pushed him under. Hitting his head on a rock and letting him float for awhile. He drowned, they said. A tragedy. And another hole was filled under the sycamore tree.
The thud of your handaxe comes down on the cool dark earth as you cut through this new boy's other arm. The last boy, you remind yourself. It had been a long time coming, all of this. And soon it would be over. The roots grow deep as you fertilize its soil with more children. The blood is messy as you cut off his leg and then his other leg and toss them into the hole.
The third child was older. You had gotten cocky and thought that if you could get one older you wouldn’t need as many. So you went to a nearby town and watched out for a girl, not yet too old, but old enough you thought she could count as two. And you found one. This girl went out with her friends often but her friends were older than her. And they hung out in the woods and got up to stuff that kids that are old but not too old get up to. You knew that she was an outsider, even among them, and that she would be left alone sooner or later if you kept a close eye. The day came when she wandered too far and you shot her with a tranquilizer dart. She passed out quickly and you carried her off. But you had never used tranquilizer before and she woke up too soon and kicked you hard. You fell as she ran. You caught your breath as she ran. She was past a few trees before you were able to gain your strength again. She couldn’t get away, she would ruin everything. She had been stronger than you had expected but she was still young and not fast enough. You tackled her and wrestled her to the ground. She struggled and hit you and bit you. You remember the feeling of holding down her head, trying to get her to stop. Telling her to be quiet. You remember the feeling of her eyes as you pushed harder and harder to get her to shut up. “Shut the fuck up! Shut the fuck up!” You were kicked by adrenaline and far too afraid of someone hearing. Pushing down on her head with all your strength you remember the popping of her eyes. Mashed into her skull. Hard pupils like glass and smashed jelly beans of blood. Her screams were horrific. But terrific. And so was the snap of her neck. And she still only counted as one. You tried to kill one less but it had to be five. It always had to be five.
You stood staring at the new boy in front of you. No arms. No legs. Just a bloodied torso, a hoodie tattered, and his head. He had shaggy dark brown hair and eyes that stared up into the sky. Staring past the leaves of the sycamore and into the darkening depths of space. You reached down and closed his eyes. That was how he slept. Mouth shut, eyes shut, staring up at the stars. He had always liked stars. And you cut off his head. Everything had to be just right.
The fourth child had been easy. After the mess you had had with the third you made it easy. You went to the poorest neighborhood you could find and waited for a new baby to arrive. Then you snuck in and took them away. It was easy and it was quiet. Quiet until the next day when a mother’s sobs and father’s yells could be heard across the whole city. But you were already gone and their baby was already dead.
Baseball’s, craw’s, rebel’s, newborn’s, and the last. Five children under a sycamore. Funny thing about sycamore. Its bark sheds scabs as it grows. Peeling each older layer as a newer one thickens underneath. But it does not do this all at once. Unlike the peeling away of a snake skin, the sycamore sheds slowly and in patches. Giving it its sickly nature. Always between half-life and part-death. The new and fresh jutting out between the islands of dying skin-slabs. In undeath. And in this way it is a perfect place to bury five children.
A perfect place for a bloody pentagram, you think. The last child was all that was left. His blood would enrichen the earth and complete the process. Perfectly. You knew it had been leading to this all along. And now, with the last child laid into the earth; the child who had the same matted hair as you and the same eyes; now with him laying at the top point of your chalk star you sat in the middle. Underneath that tree of undeath. And slit your own throat.
Your blood pooled onto your crossed legs and you looked up at the stars. The stars your son had always loved. You feel the heat of your blood drench the ground below you. The sweet corn syrup singeing the air as your vision fades. It always had to be him as the last child. Five children, murdered and put to sleep. The last of your own blood. All so this could happen. Perfectly. The world goes dark for you.
…
…
… And then you rise again. Red blood staining your skin a crimson red. The red of fires. The red of your new self. The red of Hell. You rise again and walk the earth. You rise again.
