The Rise and Fall of Mr Cruel
written by: Haji SM
You say the nicest things, that I’m a good-for-nothing runt. I’ll show you, Mother.
It’s your fault I’m a walking corpse. You beat the humanity out of me. Remember how my teachers were scared, when I kept coloring the baby girl I drew in beautiful red blood? That was after you said I killed my own twin in your womb.
So, it’s not my choice that I have no feelings, no empathy. I don’t feel sad nor happy. I felt nothing when I saw that potbellied Hank, the love of your life, squash a line of ants on our kitchen wall, dragging their insides and smudging red the white plaster. I felt empty when once you collapsed in front of me, your nose full of coke. Hank kicked you to see if you were dead. But you woke up instead, which took the smile off his face. A face made more hideous by that skull tattoo on his jaw.
That Hank, what do you see in him? When he’s not leering at me, he spends hours watching the family across the street from your bedroom window. I realise he’s memorising their routine: what time the big sister switches on her light; the little brother who rides his bike alone to school; the stressed Daddy who always rushes out late for work, leaving the door unlocked; which days busy Mommy goes out for her morning coffee. Such careless routine!
He can be patient whenever he wants to be, that Hank of yours, I’ll give him that. Though he’s not too patient with you, is he? I’ve counted the cracks in your wall mirror when I’m alone at home. He likes banging your head against it whenever you have a row, doesn’t he? Sixty-nine lines in all. See, Mother, your son can count! Aren’t you proud of me?
Did you know, Mother, your filthy boyfriend likes to place his disgusting, sweaty hands on me? I’ve tried telling you many times, but you beat me instead. It was a lot worse, what he did to me, years ago, when I was small. I’m bigger now, and stronger. So, Hank keeps his hands more to himself these days.
But you, Mother, still like to hit me and call me names. You call me a dirty rat. I suppose I am, caged in my room all day with my video games. You laugh at me, taunt me to go out in the sun, to burn off my pasty face. A face, I assume, I got from a father I never knew. He must have been strong, though, as I am strong. I can break anything with my bare hands, break them easily.
One thing I find most strange about Hank, though, is that he keeps scrubbing his hands red raw, as if he hates leaving pieces of himself anywhere, on everything he touches. He even burnt off his fingerprints on our kitchen stove. I know because he told me, when he used to touch me, which you have always been blind to, Mother.
As for me, your only son, I’m not as thick as you say I am. In fact, I’m a super-quick learner. Those hours playing video games; the knives, guns and bombs? How to use them, how to stalk prey; all very useful life skills, I must say, and I’ve mastered them all.
I make my own knives too, turning your dull kitchenware into my arsenal of war. I so love knives and savour their sharpness on my skin. I can throw my blades with such deadly accuracy; I got rid of all those rats for you. I practice diligently on the other night vermin; the drug dealers and pimps hanging outside our cosy home.
I actually did a good deed the other day, Mother. Two of your favourite cousins were beating the life out of a scrawny kid. I couldn’t stand the pathetic cries of the boy, so I kicked the ugly brutes till they puked blood. How I wish you had seen that!
Have you heard the news lately, Mother? People are panicking about a serial killer, a sadistic child predator to boot! They call him Mr Cruel. Very original, huh? Those journalists don’t know anything. They say he is very intelligent, highly educated even, which tickles me no end. Like a shadow, he slithers into people’s homes in the dead of night, ties up the parents with copper wire and electric tape, then takes his time with the child. He leaves no trace, no fingerprints. Nobody dares go out after dark anymore. Delivery men, cab drivers, boring ordinary folk become prime suspects. Such misplaced judgment! Makes it easier for this Mr Cruel to go out in broad daylight unnoticed. They’re supposed to have the best detectives on the case.
I’ll show them, Mother, what your son can do.
You see, it’s so easy to enter somebody’s home. Once you’ve mastered their routine, there’s always an opportunity. Pre-dawn is the best time when everyone is in deep sleep. You don’t even have to bother creeping quietly. Just push the house key in from the door lock, catch it on a piece of paper and pull it outside from the bottom of the door. Then simply climb the stairs and point your gun at the faces of the sleepy adults; they will be as helpless as newborn lambs. But make sure, in all the excitement, you tie them up really good, so they don’t bother you afterwards. Once that’s taken care of, all there is left to do is to stroll into the smallest bedroom for the prize.
So easy.
Just imagine Mr Cruel’s surprise then, as he pushes the door open, not to find some helpless child, but instead my 6-inch blade which torpedoes into his neck, just below his tattooed jaw.
As he chokes on his own blood.
Are you proud of me now, Mother?
You made me. I’m barely past thirteen summers, and I’ve just killed your Mr Cruel.
- The Rise and Fall of Mr Cruel - January 7, 2026
