Psychological Mitosis

We are kindred of one body and soul but are two different kinds. He was good while I was evil. He was baptized John while I was christened Jesus. He was the dominant one and I was dormant, waiting to explode like a volcano. He was the one pea in a pod but we eventually became two. It's hard to explain and I don't care to explain either, but look at me this way; as a mutated "Psychological Mitosis". He the first was fresh and healthy while I who succeeded him, was malignant and mangled. I was born out of his pain and suffering with an 'S' on my chest, to ease and deliver him. So I guess you can call me his Savior. He was the born favored with an 'F' on his chest so I guess he is my Fore runner.

He was born so fresh and healthy but because of his weakness, he relinquished his birth right to me like Esau did to Jacob in the bible. For that, he remained the size he was before I came to his side? He ceased to grow and mature, forever remaining the child he was. While I, born off the most unfavorable of circumstance became strong and blossomed into the man he would never ever become. A man he would learn to envy and detest for all time. Like John the Baptist, he was kicked aside and like Jesus I will remain, first in body and then in spirit to conquer forever. But unlike Jesus, I intend to live longer in my body, use it to the fullest, abuse it, indulge in the unthinkable and most importantly have carnal knowledge with all.

This is our story

Our father was a Catholic deacon who was a compulsive and pathological drunk. He was a huge man of about 6.3ft; he had a broad shoulder, an enormous tummy and strong athletic legs. He was a hard man with a crooked face and a hard penetrating stare that will make you feel he could read minds. How he managed to minister on Sunday's with his drinking habit was a mystery to us all. Our momma on the other hand was a quiet, obedient mousy looking woman who couldn't hurt a fly even if she tried. She always had this haunted look on her face and crept around the house like a fugitive that she really was.

  

Her situation could be attributed to weakness or maybe it was her Methodist upbringing. Her Methodist upbringing most probably taught her to be obedient and submissive to her husband, even when he was taking advantage of her. He abused her physically and he showed no iota of respect for her to the point where during one of his drunken episodes, he forcefully had his way with her, right in front of us. This was after giving her the beating of her life. We just huddled in the corner watching, crying and screaming our head out but he didn't give a care. Then in the morning he would wake up crying and begging his God for mercy, admitting he had committed a mortal sin, and promising he would never do it again.

He would be at it for hours, and then he would suddenly stop and cock his head at an angle, as thought receiving divine instructions from above. Only then would he stop his charlatan act. To cap his charade, he'd jump with his hand raised high, praising and thanking the most high for his kindness, understanding and forgiveness. Mind you, during and after his self deliverance with his God, he would never once apologize to momma, talk less of acknowledging her. In his mind, God had already forgiven him, so who cared about a mere mortals feelings.

  

Those were the earliest memories of our childhood. Back then, our only source of joy and solace was our big sister. She was a guardian angel and mother to us all in one. She played with us, bathed and fed us, read us bedtime stories, laughed with us, and cried with us when we were hurt. She tended to our injuries and shielded us from the brunt of our poppa's anger. She'd been forced into that role long before our momma died, because our momma was mostly incapacitated due to our poppa's trouncing.

One day, momma was there scuttling around the house like a mouse, the next, she was staring at us lifeless from the cold floor. Mostly, we were relieved for her so we couldn't shed many tears, but poppa cried his eyes out like a baby. We were so shocked by his antics for if those tears were as real as we felt they were, then I guess poppa must have loved her in his own perverse and twisted kind of way. He claimed she fell off the stairs accidentally, but we all knew that he must have expedited her tumble. We missed her a little even if she never acted like our mother. We missed her because her sorrowful and crazed face gave us hope. It reminded us that we might be going through hell but we weren't the only ones and that our situation was cinch compared to hers.

The night after the funeral, poppa came back home drunk as a skunk and went on rampage again. Big sister rushed into our room and told us to cover ourselves with a blanket and never to come out no matter what. Then she went back and an argument ensued which led to struggling and beating. After she was subdued, a lot of grunting, groaning and moaning ensued, then eventually silence. These became the norm most nights for months in our home. She getting battered and raped while we whimpered and cowered under the blanket until it was broken one faithful cold November night. Big sister had traveled to the neighboring town to buy materials of our yearly church convention and couldn't come back that night. Poppa as usual had come back home drunk. So he began his usual rambling, whiles us already under the supposed protection of our blanket, shook and whimpered, not daring to look out.

It was at that moment we began to fully understand and appreciate the pain and sacrifice our big sis had been making for us. Before long, poppa entered our room raving and asking for the whereabouts of our filthy mother. Yelling that she should come out and get what she had coming for her. He said that she'd been a bad girl and deserved to be spanked, because the lord God said we should rule our family with an iron hand. He continued by saying that he sees the lustful looks she gives his way and that he knows she loved the sex just like the way the whore of her mother loved it too. By then John concluded that he was so drunk, he'd forgotten that our momma was dead and that big sister wasn't back yet. So he made the naive mistake of trying to remind him of that fact. When he did, poppa pounced on him immediately, beat the crap out of him, and then sodomized him.

That was the hour I was truly born and that was the day poppa's clock started ticking. Immediately the beating and sodomy started, John retreated inside because the pain had been too much to handle. It was at that precise moment I was created and pushed out in his stead. After poppa was spent, he rolled over us and said we weren't completely useless after all. He said that for once, we were useful because our hole was tighter than our momma's and sister's. The words had barely left his mouth when he passed out; murmuring just before his light went out that he meant what he said as a compliment, like we were supposed to be thankful.

Big sister came back the following morning and saw the wreckage done to us. She went berserk and attacked poppa. In tears, she asked if defiling her wasn't enough for him, and as usual, she got the beating of her life for all her troubles. He beat her till she bled in between her legs. I must let you know that then I and John didn't know what a miscarriage was talk more of pregnancy, we just assumed big sister was seriously hurt. When she saw the blood the will to fight deserted her and she immediately began to scoop the blood and chunks of flesh back into her as she wailed. Poppa ordered her to put a lid on it. He claimed he'd done everyone a favor and that it was a good thing it was out. He said he had no intention of allowing that filth in her live anyway. He proclaimed that he wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.

It was such a pitiful and disgusting sight to behold.

    

John felt proud that she'd stood up to poppa, even knowing she stood no chance against him. I on the other hand was seething in anger and shame for her because she should have continued fighting for us. She reminded me so much of momma and her weakness. We lost a brother or a sister that day, or was it a nephew or niece? But that was the least of my worries though, for he or she was better off dead than brought into this evil world. So the brutalization and rape that started that night, continued on us for months until the night I murdered him.

Like every other night, it began with his drunken entrance. But tonight, the devil overcame big sister and also deserted her quickly too. She'd attacked him with a knife and couldn't make the kill when the time finally came. Poppa was going to do us the bad thing again and she didn't want him to, so he found his route to us blocked by a carving knife. He was so dumbfounded by her audacity that he actually reeled for about a couple of seconds. When he eventually got his footings, he told her to drop the knife and get out of the way. He said that if she was lucky, he might still be conscious enough to do her too after he was through with us.

Till date I have wondered what got into her that night. I thought she'd lost the will to stand up for us after that November morning. I thought she'd resigned us to our bitter fate. So I was elated when she made to stab poppa but became furious when she missed. Her miss wasn't due to poppa's quick reflexes but because he was so drunk that he staggered and slumped back. By a stroke of fate, poppa's life had been prolonged not just by a couple of minutes but by couple of minutes well spent. He was on the floor struggling to rise, very vulnerable and unguarded. He was as helpless as a sacrificial lamb and that was when the devil I so welcomed, chose to desert big sister. She couldn't deal the most important blow that would have ended our misery.

She just stood transfixed in fear until he stood up and pounce on her. He called her a whore and started beating her, and then he told her that her bastard son was no different too. At this point, I became confused because I was sure that big sister had lost her baby that faithful November morning. He said that John wasn't his son, but the spawn of the devil, brought to this world by her to bring about his downfall. She started pleading with him to shut up because we could hear him. But he said he didn't give a rat ass if we heard, because he thought it was high time the wimp knew who his real mother was. It was at that point I came to a shocking realizing;

Big sister was our mother.

   

He raped her again and again, while she cried and moaned like a bitch in heat. Moaning because she actually loved what he was doing and crying because she couldn't help loving it even when it was atrocious. When he was spent, he blacked out on the floor right where they had just finished the night romping, while big sister laid spread-eagled on the floor beside him sleeping. At this point, I came out of my own accord and forced John in to be a passive observer to our freedom. Because, like my momma and big sister, John was a wimp who wouldn't and couldn't do what needed to be done.

So I picked up the knife and went into frenzy, stabbing poppa repeatedly till he died. And at the moment before he took his last breath, I had an erection and experienced my first ejaculation. The feeling was so overwhelming that I collapsed to my knee in the throes of pleasure. The thrill of my first kill and that singular act of pleasure I experienced afterwards defined the man I was to become in future. For a man who brought so much pain to us, he died not feeling any pain because he'd been too intoxicated. I felt cheated. After I was done, I knelt beside momma and tried to wake her up. I tried to make her happy by showing her what I had done for us. I tried to show her that I had released her from the bondage poppa had put her in. 

She finally woke up a little confused and disoriented. Then she saw me holding the bloody knife. Finally, she saw poppa dead beside her and she looked at me in horror. The stupid bitch crawled over to poppa instead of towards us. She started crying; begging and shaking him back to life instead of holding us and reassuring us that everything was going to be alright. When she saw her effort was fruitless, she started cursing at us. She called us the devils spawn and that God will damn our soul for all eternity.

At that precise moment, I learnt a valuable lesson; "An abused lived for the physical and mental abused. They lived for the thrill and therefore cannot live without their abuser".

    

Her actions and statement sealed her fate and helped me make my decision quickly. So I stabbed her again and again, right where she was lying and she didn't even put up a fight, not even when she could have saved herself. She was such a wimp at the end that it almost left a bitter taste in my mouth or maybe she just felt there was nothing to live for now that poppa was gone. After the deed has been done I removed my clothes and hid it under a loose brick in the floor of our basement. Then I walked back into our room, climbed our bed and relived the moment when I killed them both. The memory had been so potent and sweet that I had an erection and ejaculated right there again. When I had enough of fantasizing I brought John back up and settled back in, gleefully waiting for morning and the moment when the milkman would come knocking at our door.

I so relished the screaming that would be sure to follow suit.

   

So it can be said I committed my first double murders at the tender age of 14years, 9months and 21days. My first victims were my father and my mother. But I personally feel and credit myself with a quadruple murder even if there were only two bodies and no third or fourth to support my claims; I call it a quadruple because my father was also my mother's father, which would also make him my grandfather and my mother was also my father’s daughter. So it was my grandfather, my father, my sister and my mother I killed that night.

Sadly, I felt no remorse, even for my mother because she was too weak in her resolve to. She should have killed him when she got the chance but she faltered because she fell in love with him. They deserved what they got and I would do it all over again if given the opportunity. So that's my dirty little secret. How worse can it get, when the man that raped you repeatedly as a kid was your father and also your grandfather? Or that your sister is also your biological mother and she knew your father and grandfather was raping you every other night and she didn't do anything about it. She did nothing because she was weak and had fallen for a monster, a monster who was also the father and grandfather of her son. Wasn't it only fair to kill them all, in a bid to try and salvage the little of what was left of my soul and sanity?

How worse can it get? Answer me! How worse?