People could�ve easily claimed that their source of terror was a boy named Darius.
Darius was an adorable little boy with constantly mussed hair and an infectious giggle. At first sight, the dimples in his cheeks gave the impression that angels had pressed their thumbs into the boy�s cheeks like an overly adoring aunt did with a nephew. The constant shine in his eyes hinted at something more.
Though he appeared as if angels adored him, Darius had committed three murders at the age of eight.
The first murder was unintentional. The boy had been playing in his backyard with a small plastic shovel while his parents lingered within the house. Dirt had grazed nearly every patch of bare skin that it could find, Darius�s arms bouncing happily in the air. The sickeningly bright orange shovel hit the towering wooden fence and rapped against it several times. Each time, dust fell from the top of the fence.
A shout filled the air as dust plummeted into his eyes. His parents, too busy arguing to notice, did not hear him.
His eyes red and sore, sobs wrenched from his tiny body as if he�d just been smacked. The shovel fell to the ground as Darius�s pudgy hands rubbed furiously at his eyes. His sobs were no longer from pain, but from anger. Perhaps twenty minutes had passed before he stopped his tantrum, just as the dust finally seemed to fade from his sensitive eyes.
The boy�s face still red, he stretched as far as a three-year-old could and grabbed the shovel he�d previously dropped. He paused in curiosity as a serpent hissed and spit in his direction. Though Darius didn�t know it, the snake must have slithered near during his fit.
The boy had no way of comprehending his actions as he drove the shovel into the fragile body of the snake. It was not quite sliced in half, for when Darius raised the bright orange toy, the snake still twitched as its flesh clung to the child�s toy. It still spit angrily as Darius began to cry again, lashing out at the human. The snake�s opponent grew angry as quickly as his tears had begun to spill, shaking the shovel before driving it into the dirt again.
A subtle yet devilish giggle erupted from Darius�s lips as the snake writhed on the ground and soon died. He stood shakily and wobbled towards his mother�s house.
Time number two had been of a similar accidental nature. Darius was six years old and he�d failed to remember his first murder. The boy and his father were at the park, and the sun warmed their skin as other children bustled away. (Darius had already become known as a very spiteful boy, and not many children wanted to stay in his company.)
One little girl lingered behind as Darius climbed to the very top of the play equipment.
�Is that your daddy?� Her voice surprised Darius.
Darius turned around, already a solemn and cruel-looking boy, �Yes.�
�He looks nice.�
�So.� Darius grumbled and tried to climb further up the equipment, onto a metal bar that was supposed to keep the children safe.
The little girl giggled, �You shouldn�t do that.�
�Okay.� The brown-haired boy surprisingly stopped climbing and came back down. �Maybe you should try.�
His peer simply frowned. �Why?�
�It looks neat.�
�Oh.� She looked thoughtful for a moment and nodded. �I�ll try.�
Darius smiled a haunting and mature smile as the girl started to climb. He smiled even wider as she fell. His ears nearly pricked at her quiet and brief squeal and his laugh seethed to the surface, the same devilish laugh that followed the death of the unfortunate snake.
His father didn�t hear the girl fall, for he was too busy flirting with the child�s mother.
The third time was not accidental at all, and it was simpler than the other two murders.
An eight-year-old Darius had watched his mother dash out the front door as his father bellowed from behind the ripped screen (a reminder of past violent altercations).
�You wench!�
Darius giggled as he watched his mother peer back, face red from grief. �Wench.� He mimicked his father�s word in a small voice.
He plodded down the carpeted stairs that were just outside his room and into the kitchen. Darius�s father, too blind with rage to notice his son, didn�t see Darius climb atop the counter and remove the stainless steel blade from its nest.
�Hey, Dad!� Darius called the second his feet hit the hardwood floor.
�What the hell do you want, boy!� His father shouted from the hallway.
Darius heard his father sit heavily on the stairs and slowly approached him, the knife gripped behind his back.
�Sorry.� The boy said to his father just before the knife sliced open bare skin, and red blood flowed like silk from his father�s neck.
It took a short amount of time before Darius�s father was dead.
It took even longer for the police to arrive.
Darius saw the terror in the police officers� eyes as they spotted the young boy tasting the blood on his hands. He felt their terror as they finally took a look at his pale and drawn face, seeing an evil inside of him that was far more than an eight-year-old boy should possess.
The boy loved how their fear cradled him, and how the fear he instilled in them froze their very souls, gripped them in the dark embrace of terror.