Clinton picked up the longest and widest knife in his mother's collection. How easily she used it to cut through skin and bone. How could she stand the screaming? How could she not be moved by the terror in their eyes as victims realized they couldn't escape?

His dad could never murder them. Did that mean weakness? Mom had been disgusted at his cowardice and told him to leave, or he would be next. No, Clinton must be brave, or his mother would reject him too.

The ten-year-old boy dropped the knife. The tip of the blade gashed his calf. Fascinated, he watched a red bubble sprout and trickle down toward his foot.

To his surprise, it didn't hurt, at least for the first few seconds. But shock set in when he stooped to pick up the weapon. With horror, he saw now how deep the gash was. The trickle widened and thickened. That would mean stitches. Could his mom do that?

Maybe, she would think he was damaged goods and ready for death. The boy started to scream just like the chickens and pigs his mother slaughtered and sold to the butcher. He had to stop.

The sound of her footsteps terrified him. "I'm not like Dad," he sobbed and plunged the knife into his chest.