"Sir! She tried to kidnap me!", I said huffing. My father was hugging me and was thanking the officers who saved me. But who is this 'she'? She is the original victim.
Black hair, round droopy eyes, full lips and cheerful personality is his preference. Whose? My Father's. For killing people. No only women! He takes women with such description and then he... tears of their limbs... and head to study the anatomy for his million dollar masterpieces and sculptures. Now, how did I get into this? Very simple. I was a stupid child in an adoption centre and he needed someone to work under him. A sane person wouldn't do this kind of shit. So he got himself a child, to raise him to insanity. I have no choice. No choice but to help him kidnap women and tear them into pieces. Why not! I fell into his trap. Now if I refuse, this will bring hell upon me.
Last Sunday, we kidnapped a woman while returning from the art class. We used chloroform to make her unconscious, tied her hands, covered her mouth and then put her in the dickie. My father and I sat in the front seats. He was driving when an informant warned him about something. The policemen got to know that a person has been kidnapped and was searching every car.
"We don't have much time. Do your thing.", he said.
I dabbed myself with super hot water which was kept in the thermos-flask and rubbed my nose and cheeks until they were red. I used some random chemical he bought to produce instant tears. My eyes were swollen by the time we reached the check-point. "Sir, we need to check your car", requested a policeman. "My dear son is ill! He has high fever! Please let us go! We need to go to the hospital", replied my father. After a lot of bilaterals, he eventually let us go without checking. Why did they actually believe this? Because I was an eleven year old bastard!
We had already lost the check point in the arch of the road when we heard the dickie door clang open and turned around to see the woman jump off the car. She rolled on the road, got up and started running for the checkpoint. My father pushed the brakes, we got off the car and started running behind her. My father picked up a stone and hit her. She fell on the ground with a scream. We saw lights falling on the ground at a distance like torch beams. The police had come to check this ruckus! Fuck! I picked up a stone and hit myself on the head. Warm blood rolled down my forehead and bloodied my left eye. I sat down on the road, scratched my knees and elbow on the ground and shouted, "Kidnapper! Kidnapper!". The bright yellow lights fell on my eyes as I shielded the beam with my palm. The policemen caught the woman, my father running behind her, crying. He told the officers that she tried to kidnap me. Later the officers questioned me and I told them that she hit me with a rock and tried to pull me when I got off the car to vomit. We gave them the chloroform bottle and the napkin as proof. Ofcourse, it did not have our fingerprints. The policemen did not bother to open the dickie and let us go to the hospital, while taking the woman with them.
We know they will be after us when they find out that she was the one was made unconscious with chloroform but we have had enough of this. We have changed our identities countless times. Only two identity remained unchanged - artist, Painter of Dreams and his son, Bastard.