SATANIC SITE

Episode 1's

I'm still telling you, thankfully. Mumpung is still mostly a true me who occupies the body of Divine care, and also, mumpung I still remember and sane enough to tell it, although not runut. I'm sorry if my story jumps later. That's because the spaces in my brain are like they're blocking, or, if you're saying, there are brazen entities that are setting the peg of power. I, as the rightful owner of those spaces, so like a stranger. I have to rampage first then the plumber according to. Damn indeed.

Quite friendly. I want to curse first. Goddammit! That bastard! The devil! What's for sure is this, you can't feel what I feel. Let me ask you, you ever wake up and see your hands covered in blood?

Ever been? No?

I am every day!

This hand is drenched in blood not because the night before I went to sleep I was slitting the throat of a neighbor or a householder, was it not. Nor was it because I was slicing my own veins, if I did that, I would no longer be telling stories right now. Imagine how I react every morning to see my right hand covered in blood. Thick and fishy smell. It was as if the night before I was desperate to stab my fat friend in the stomach and then I poured his blood into the bucket, and I kept dipping my hand and stirring and poking all together with his innards. Anyway, what's the benefit? I really don't understand what happened. Anyway, every morning, I wake up always finding my hands covered in blood. Worse yet, the blood looked freshly smeared on the hands. And I assure you, I feel no pain at all.

The first time I knew my hands were bleeding early in the morning was when the son of a bitch was staying over to fuck my mom. I was thirteen years old then. It's so noisy if the bastard comes to my house. Though my house on the edge of the tracks that every few minutes there will definitely be an electric train passing by. Well, the cry of the son of a bitch overcame the sound of the chariot. I wanted to drag him down and tie him to the tracks, let the wheels of the train run over his head until it breaks. The bastard's making it hard for me to sleep. You can sleep, it's past three. The sound of the neighbor's chicken and the morning train made me wake up automatically an hour and a half later.

My old habit, I like to rub my eyes when I wake up. I went out to fetch water in a faucet that was illegally installed from the station's pipe. My neighbor, Yut Kasmijan, was grinning, then pointing at my face and hands. I was screaming and we were shocked. My face is covered in blood. My right hand too.

I admitted to not knowing at all, then reasoned before going to bed earlier I was messing with sauce sambal. Yut Kasmijan who squatted his mind only mangosteen agreed and advised me to wash my hands and face immediately. After that I went in and found the bastard playing with my mother on the sofa butut with a per poking around the corner. Ah, motherfucker, I don't like seeing scenes like that. Just for information, because of that I become nauseous when thinking about sex.

In a room with triplex walls and cardboard patches, I observed my right hand. I still smell the fishy scent of blood. I screamed later. Three minutes passed and my right hand turned black. And the fucker again, it smells like a cat carcass left for a week. I opened my cardboard window and puked beside the tracks. I shook my hand for a thousand strokes, the black did not disappear, nor did the smell. I had the thought of cutting off my hand that smelled so sorry. In the kitchen that was united with the toilet, there was a butcher knife. Ah, but it's full of rust and I'm not sure it's sharp enough to cut my hand off once. Maybe you can try by putting my hand on the tracks, let the train pass by do the rest. But the day was bright, my neighbor who was mostly scavengers was already busy preparing to leave.

My bleeding hand turned black and lasted for about thirty minutes until it returned to normal and the smell of human skin again, my skin.

Oh, I forgot to tell you my name. By the way, my name is Atarjoe. Actually it's not a birth name. My mother, who somehow lost the spirit of life, every time I asked my real name was always angry and said forget. My mother is broken. Ever since the son of a bitch raided our lives, my mom's been weird. They like to smoke and get drunk. I as his son was abandoned. Already, my hatred for the bastard boiled to the top.

Actually what I wanted to tell you at the beginning was about the consequences when I scooped people's faces using my hands. So, the next days after I first found my hands covered in blood, I reduced my habit of wiping my face upon waking. Once was a few times cheated, my face so covered with blood again, my mother to the point of seeing my face as if it had been rubbed by people. I did not go to sleep to see what really happened to my hands while I slept. But still, at three I fell asleep. I tried so hard to get up at four or half four, it was hard. Once I woke up at thirty-forty-five, my hands were covered in blood. So I deduce the event of my hand bleeding either from the pores of my skin or there is a subtle creature that ate the baby and then used my hand as a tissue, it happened in the range of three to four in the morning. I don't know.

Hey, hey, apparently, I can do something I never thought I'd do before. And actually, my first victim wasn't the bastard. But I'll tell you first what happened to the bastard now. He's my second victim.

He's the victim I scooped on his face while my hands blackened the smell of carrion. So, one day the son of a bitch and my mom got into a brawl about a lot of things. I salute my mother. Secretly my mother helped plant a grudge against the bastard who usually just ask for money and fuck my mother. I'm glad, I'm not alone planting hate. I was boiling when the bastard threw his piss-smelling hand into my mother's face. I clenched my hands, my heart was pounding so hard, my eyes were squinting sharply against the bastard. I imagined my black hand smelling like a carcass could be as hard as a railroad steel, so I could stick it on his splintered head until it leaked and bleed a barrel. My mom fought back by throwing a skillet, but with a strong blow, my mom fell into a bogem the bastard. I saw blood in the air. My mother's nose is bleeding. That's where, my hottest boiling point, the first of my life as a thirteen-year-old.

I remember howling so loud that I made Yut Kasmijan's hang outside the house, peering out the door. I jumped on the bastard, I clutched his face with both hands. My strike made the bastard fall, hit his head on the floor. My nose is plugged with two fingers from my blackened right hand. Instantly the bastard vomited. His eyes widened. His face suddenly became like a pardon. I hit him with the force of his nose until my finger hurt. The bastard was thrashing about to break free from me. I poke his eyes. Then I clutched his face again with my hands that blackened the smell of carrion. The son of a bitch howled, louder than his whimpering while screwing my mother.

His screams of fear gave my ears their own satisfaction. I'm getting away from her. The bastard panicked and moved backwards as his eyes widened and pointed at something behind me. His face was pale, whiter than my house's dull ceramics. The bastard grabbed his own hair, frustrated. Then banged his head on the floor many times until it poured blood.

I bluffed him to leave. The son of a bitch got up and ran off the ridge when I just stepped foot near him. His expression of fear was like giving me an injection of strength. I cursed her while she ran away, then I started with a satisfied laugh.

I calmed my mother down after my hand recovered. Then I thought about what exactly the bastard was looking at frantically. For I looked back, I found nothing but my own shadow.