Anders Benet had murdered his mother in the womb.
He had no memory of this, nor could he say he intended the woman any harm. Indeed, it wasn’t until his fourteenth year that he killed anyone, intentionally. That was the year his middle-aged gym teacher learned, just before she died, what a mistake it was to humiliate him in front of his fellow students, a fact she attested to repeatedly, over and over as she begged for her life, before Anders choked the childless woman to death by shoving her own bloody ovaries down her throat.
It was a messy kill, to be sure, and poorly planned, and he was very nearly caught. But then he had been in a hurry, a rush to consummate his first orgasm of violence. For he had learned something about himself not two weeks before, a simple truth about his past that changed everything, and that would come to change the world. His uncle, drunk and filled with guilt, had finally shared the circumstances of his mother’s death. The family had remained tight-lipped out of fear of upsetting the child during his most sensitive years. No one wanted to suggest her passing was his fault.
But it was.
Baby Anders had had fits. Not often. In fact, there weren’t more than five through the entire pregnancy, and the first few lasted mere minutes. But as the fetus grew, so did the paroxysms, and by the last, Anders’s nineteen-year-old mother drove herself to the hospital in severe, cramping pain. At first everyone assumed she was giving birth—a full nine weeks early—but as soon as it was clear that was not the case, the doctors began scratching their heads. As they ran test after test and debated the risks of removing the fetus so prematurely, baby Anders continued his dark episode—the longest one yet—and so managed to aggravate an existing bruise. Five agonizing hours later, he triggered a hemorrhage, and very quickly his mother’s death.
Uncle Mik had explained all of this with his eyes cast to his floor. More than one tear dribbled into his beer, which he drank nonetheless. And never once did he look at his nephew. He couldn’t. Besides that he was a frail man with horrible nystagmus, Mik van Veen was a coward.
When, after a long silence, the man finally turned to face his nephew’s shock, guilt, and anger, he saw nothing of the sort.
He saw only peace.
And then something more.
The older man recoiled as the boy threw a smile across his face—casually, the way a model might toss a scarf over her shoulder.
Young Anders was relieved. For he knew then that the fits he had been fighting his entire brief life—fits so dark he dared not share the full details—were not an anomaly, a deviation, as his teachers had led him to believe as they walked him to the corner to calm down. They were, in fact, the deepest, realest part of himself. The larva he had felt squirming in his skull, and which drove deep and abiding urges, hadn’t infected him from without. It wasn’t an alien or a demon. It was an organ, like any other.
But unlike any other.
Deep inside the young man’s chest, his heart bared a razor-toothed grin. Whatever else he was going to be in life, Anders Benet knew then—rightly, peaceably—that he would be a murderer, and that he would take from the world everything the black maggots in his head had promised.
But first, he knew, he had to be perfect.
snippet from Episode Six, which is just about done.