The Predator

The expressions etched on her face rummaged up memories of that small bird Mama gifted me when I was twelve. Her wide eyes, filled with terror, mirrored the frightened gaze of that helpless creature.

I recalled the sickening thrill coursing through me as I held the small blade, the bird's frantic heartbeat pulsating against my palm.

And I had felt nothing. No guilt. No regret. Just a deep, insatiable satisfaction that settled in my bones, a hunger that never quite left.

Mama knew then—knew I wasn’t meant for the dull, sanitized world the rest of them lived in. And maybe, for a time, she mourned the sweet, innocent...