Crazy [Story with lots of gore :3]

I'm not crazy. They say I am, but I'm not. I'm not crazy. No, no, no, sir, not at all. So when they call me crazy I hurt them.

Little cuts within their smooth, warm skin. Cutting through the layers as if they were butter, and the red that pours out – the beautiful lifeblood – is like the most expensive French wine I've ever seen. I just want to lap it all up, feel the metal tang sloshing around over my tongue, staining my teeth and I laugh. It feels so fucking good that I laugh, and I laugh, and I laugh.

They cry. They cry and beg and plead for me to stop, but I don't you see, because I have to punish them. I'm not crazy, so they lied and they have to be punished. I have to punish them. They don't stop begging though so I make them.

Tape there nose and mouth shut and watch as they struggle, as they panic and cry and their face turns the most magnificent shade of blue I ever had seen and their eyes close slowly, that little light flickering out as if I'd hit a lightbulb with a baseball bat.

Sometimes I do other things to make them quiet. Dig my nails into their throat and make a little cut, pulling back the flesh and waiting for the blood – the beautiful, beautiful crimson – to gush down their neck so I can pull out the smooth vocal chords and tie them in a bow. I made them look pretty – they should thank me, you see.

I'm not crazy. I'm not. I'm a good girl because I punished the liars and Daddy always told me not to lie.

So when Daddy said I was insane I took his favorite hammer and bashed him upside the head. The sound of his skull crushing was like musical. It replayed in my head for days, and I found myself giggling. It sounded so wonderful. Daddy would be proud, because I did what he said.

I'm a good girl.