Young Writers Society

Can I slice the chicken this time?

I remember every detail as vividly as if I am watching a film, the thoughts and feelings are like Ivy attached to my mind, even if I try to get rid of them, they come crawling back like vines of vengeance. This is the only thing I will share. The truth. It all started a year ago, when I was thirteen...

The sound of a knife cutting through meat always fascinated me, especially when it was soft meat and it just took one movement of the knife; the little bits of meat separated like splinters. I always used to watch Mum prepare a meal for us at home and Dad usually came in complaining about work and how the tea should have been ready the moment he got through the door; Mum always responded with something like 'Well, I'm not a superhero you know Frank.' Maybe it would have been better if Mum was a superhero, then she could keep him happy, or at least defend the blows Dad threw at her.

My Dad was the powerful one of the family and he surely knew how to show it in his art; Mum's arms illustrated most of it. He never tried to hit me. I isolated myself intentionally in the garden shed, I liked to shut myself off from the world because I was different to other people my age. They played in the park or other 'normal' activities; I spent my time thinking how nice it would be if I could be the one to slice the chicken, for my hand to be the one that holds the knife, rips into it and drives the flesh apart. I felt like I didn't know the difference between what the little angel on my shoulder was saying and the little devil on my other, could I even trust them? I didn't share anything with other people; I felt if I told anyone what I was thinking, that they'd steal my plan and carry it out themselves, but it had to be me. My Plan. Their lives. My thrill. I was intrigued by the biology of animals, the tiny little organs they have; in a biology class we got to slice them open and examine them; a lot of people were disgusted by this but I found it exhilarating.

When I saw my Dad hit my Mum, I thought it was normal, what every Dad did; I asked my mum about it and she explained that he does it because he loves her and that's the only way he can show affection. I went up to a girl I liked and punched her in the face. She did not take it well. Mum was wrong. I could not trust my parents advice after that; I thought parents were always right, not mine. The only person I could trust was myself. I was about to find out how trusting only myself and my instincts was the worst decision in my life.

On Tuesday February 6th 2001 my father hit me. He came in from work in a relatively happy mood for a change and I saw this as an opportunity to ask Mum if I could cut the chicken. My father flipped, he called me a 'sissy' and that it was the woman's job to do the cooking; my Mum tried to calm him but it didn't work, he struck me in the face and a stream of blood slithered down my cheek. I ran outside and locked myself in the shed. I didn't cry. I never cried. Anger was the first emotion that hit me and it struck me like an axe; I wanted him dead. I knew I could kill him, but I wasn't sure I could dispose of the body. At that moment, a cat strolled passed, I seized the moment and grabbed it; I squeezed it until it stopped struggling.

The next few days I went on to kill three more cats, but it began to feel too easy; I craved something bigger. I had to plan to the very last detail, if I was to get away with it; I suppose it's like cooking a meal, you have to get every ingredient correct or it doesn't taste right. The only difference was that my life depended on it tasting right. I constructed a plan: First, I find out where kids hang out after school; then I make sure it is possible to get one without anyone knowing; I take them to the local woods because no one with sense goes there at night; I slice them open with my kitchen knife.

I studied my peer's hangout places for three days to make sure the time and place did not change. Sure enough, I found out that a few kids hung around the same bus stop every evening from 7.00-10.30. So that Friday I took a stroll down there and waited behind a nearby wall until one boy exited his house at 7.12; I shouted him over and asked if he could help me build a den down at the woods, he said that he was just going to his mate's house. Make it seem like the idea has benefits for them I recalled from a book I read. I explained that it would be perfect because they could both help and then use it whenever they want. It worked.

All I could think about was the knife slicing through their skin. I knew it wouldn't be as easy as cutting through chicken, but I knew the feeling would be just as liberating. The boy returned with his mate and they had no idea that they were walking into a trap like little mice going for the cheese I had so neatly placed out. Of course, when we got there, there was no den. I suggested that maybe someone had kicked it down and pulled what I thought was an annoyed, upset expression. They bought it. One of them mentioned that maybe we should play a game instead; I figured this was to cheer me up. How nice. My plan was falling into place perfectly; 'Hide and seek is my favourite, I'll be on, what do you say guys?' One of them said that we don't have enough people, but I explained that we could have a few quick games then head back, saying: 'We may as well do something while we're here' .They saw no harm in that. They were the suggestible type I had read about.

They went to hide and I could feel the thrill bubbling up inside me like a fizzy drink. I counted to one hundred; a lot less than it takes to cook a chicken although maybe enough to re-heat a plateful in the microwave, and then DING! My chicken was ready. I went to a previously hidden bag, took out my knife and, placed it in my pocket. I walked slowly, looking all around me to make sure I didn't miss the blind-spot; I wasn't like them, I was the blind-spot to them, unfortunately. I heard a twig snap to my right; a disruptive squirrel; I could've killed that, but it didn't have enough meat to slice through. I continued straight forward and I saw a movement in the bushes. I gripped my kitchen knife in my pocket, peered round the bushes and there he was, the friend, bobbed down and looking up at me with astonishingly blue eyes that I hadn't noticed before. They seemed to glow, almost like crystals. I rugby tackled him to the ground; stabbed him...again and again...fifteen times in total, simply because it was my favourite number. Then I saw those crystal eyes close. I lifted the lids and they seemed to have lost their glow. I no longer wanted them. I heaved the chunk of meat into a leafy ditch and left it there for dessert.

The winner got a special present, he lived the longest. When it was his turn, a familiar song began to play in my head, 'If you go down to the woods today you're in for a big surprise...' he was in for a big surprise, I chuckled to myself 'If you go down to the woods today you better go in disguise' I went to the bag and took out a black jumper and pulled it over my bloody clothes, even if I get blood on this, it won't show. I found him, laid behind a fallen tree. I told him to turn around and count because his mate had already hidden. As soon as he did I stabbed him in the back, but this time I lost count, the sound of the knife ripping flesh entranced me. I couldn't stop. That saying has a lot more meaning to me now.

I carried him to the ditch and flung him in; I took the knife out and began slicing through their skin, slowly and carefully; starting with Mr 'Yeah I'll come and help you with your den' then his mate with the Cubic Zirconia eyes, who was much softer and more exhilarating to carve. The juice flowed out like a waterfall. I waited till it stopped. Kicked a pile of leaves over them and casually walked off. That moment I realised the use of dogs; they made you look less suspicious walking through a wood. Damn, that's one thing I should've taken. That was only one of the mistakes I made that brought me to this place where I can no longer slice meat again. Although I don't regret my actions, the worst decisions of my life were the mistakes I made; I regret not covering my tracks. It only takes one slip up and they have you. I saw my freedom sliced away as fast as I could say 'Chicken.'