Mitch looked down on the little village on the table. An exact replica of the village where he lived, the village where he was from. He laughed inside.
The little hairs of his so-called friends and family. The objects of people he didn’t even know. The little figures all had names now. Personalities. Hopes and dreams for him to destroy. He hated them. He hated them all.
He picked up one, put it down in the village. Mrs Maple. The old hag down the street. The one who told his parents about the dead little birds. She put her close to James, the limp. He turned the light down to night mode. Tonight they would meet, in the alley behind the church. Where no one ever walked.
He pinched James with a needle to make him angry. Scared Mrs Maple with a scream. Then he cut the head off the Mrs Maple piece. They would be his first victims. One dead, the other in jail for murder.
Mrs Maple sat quietly in her house, looking out the window. Opened the book again, and kept reading.
James went to bed, tired after a long day’s work.
Mitch laughed an evil laugh. -Suffer, minions! Feel my wrath!
A madman’s ramblings behind private walls. Imagination was all he had left.