Copycat

Frank Cassius wasn't bullied. Nor abused. He was misunderstood.

His father was a prestigious doctor, devoted to his work in the family's basement during the day and his well needed slumber at night. His mother was a reputable lawyer, also engrossed with her work. He, however, couldn't live up to his parents expectations. His grades were substandard, he wasn't involved in clubs and he didn't have any friends.

He didn't feel like everyone else, so he taught himself to copy their emotions. He was simply Frank Cassius.

He sat in the living room, playing with a vermilion, rubber bouncy ball as he threw it against the wall.

Ping!

It hit the wall, bouncing back towards him. He clutched the ball within his fingers, raised it and then released it again.

Ping!

The ball hit against the corner of the wall, sending it bounding across the room and down a series of steps. Frank cocked his head towards the direction it had ran, his gaze landing upon the staircase that led to the basement of his father's private workspace.

He simply hoped that his father hadn't heard the ball as it hit the wooden steps. His father didn't like being interrupted.

Slowly, Frank stood and began to warily maneuver himself around the furniture and towards the staircase where the door had been open a crack. He gripped the stair railing, a nervous tremble in his clammy hands as he began to descend down towards his father's workspace. His steps were light, ensuring he wouldn't make a sound.

He peered through the sliver of space between the door and the doorframe, attempting to catch a glimpse of the red ball. His eyes trailed through the shadows, through the mass of cardboard boxes to the old furnishings that were draped with white sheets.

In the corner of the room, peeking through the ominous shadows sat the red, rubber ball.

He pressed his sweaty hands against the white wooden door, squeezing his eyes shut as he plead for his father not to notice him. When there was enough space for Frank to squeeze through, he gambled with his chances and entered the basement.

He scurried towards the corner where the ball sat, concealing himself in the shadows as his eyes landed on his father who stood on the other side of the room. His Father's back faced Frank, but it's what was in front of his father that had gained Frank's attention.

It was a woman, in her mid thirties with shoulder length blonde hair and ghastly pallid skin, laying bare. She was dead. A mere corpse his father was carving into with a scalpel.

Frank watched each incision intently, finding himself intrigued with how her skin broke under the pressure of the blade. How the blood seeped from each wound, dribbling down to the steel table she laid on and if that didn't catch the crimson liquid, than the plastic tarp splayed across the floor would.

His father then picked up a kitchen knife, Frank recognized it as the one his mother used to mince vegetables and cut meat. His father cut the woman.

He threw the knife down upon her ear, only managing to tear half of it from her head and when that didn't work, he began to saw the ear off. It slowly bent, until the last chord of flesh was cut. The sound of flesh falling hit the floor, dropping onto the tarp. It painted the tarp with crimson, like a grubby toddler's artwork.

His father cut her arms, removing small amounts of flesh before removing larger ones. Soon it evolved to removing limbs, slowly and carefully. Each one fell to the floor and when his father finally finished, he took a step back and admired his work. A mutilated woman, hardly even recognizable anymore.

He grabbed two large garbage bags from the workbench beside him and began to place the remnants of the woman's body into them, all the while his young son watched.

His father threw the bags into the corner of the room, making his way towards the sink that sat upon the wall, allowing Frank enough time to retreat back upstairs where he would act as if he had witnessed nothing but his interest had reached its peak and he knew what he was going to do tonight.

Tonight, he was going to do what his father had done. Tonight, he was going to build and destroy.

Like father, like son.