Updated on February 27, 2020


Piles of shoeboxes housed numerous drawings. Those drawings featured the bloody demise of Cole’s abusive father. He heard his father’s voice down the hall. It boomed shaking the walls. Under his bed, the boy hid. The door creaked open. A sliver of light poured into the darkened bedroom.

“Cole,” his dad called. No reply. Cole’s muscles tensed. While holding his breath Cole thought

“Go away.” The door closed and his angry footsteps trailed off. Cole climbed out from under his bed. It was a warm night but he felt a cold shiver creep down his back.

Then he heard his parents arguing; this was a nightly ritual. Next, he heard his growl which was followed by his mother’s heavy sobs. Cole knew she had been hit. It didn’t use to be like this. There was a time where Daddy had been kind. Six months ago Daddy lost his job in the factory. Mom was forced to start working nights at a local restaurant. There wasn’t a lot of jobs available for a guy who dropped out after the eighth grade. It was the one thing Cole admired the old man for.

The boy was an artist. He was only nine but Cole had already had a couple of drawings accepted to some magazines. Cole’s father put an end to that. He pocketed the little bit of money Cole had won from the drawings and bought himself new golf clubs. The father ordered him to stop because he did not want his son to get a big head. After all, the child was so young. It was after these orders that the drawings of a dead father emerged. Cole’s sympathy for his dad waned and hate replaced any semblance of love Cole had previously felt for his father. Suddenly the door burst open and the bedroom light turned on. Cole’s father towered over his son.

“Where have you been?” Dad asked.

“I-I-I was hiding,” Cole stuttered.

“What the fuck for?” his dad asked.

“I don’t know.” Cole avoided his dad’s gaze. The father slapped his son’s ear, causing it to bleed. The son grabbed his ear.

“I hope you die!” thought Cole. Then the dad pulled his son close to him. He could smell the bourbon on his father’s breath.

“I love you,” the guy whispered.

“Yeah Dad,” Cole mumbled.

That night while Cole’s father slept, Cole’s mother packed up her son in the family’s station wagon, and screeched the tires, screeched the tires speeding off into the night. A man wearing infrared goggles emerged from the bushes, smashed the garage door window, and unlocked the door. He opened it up and grabbed a hacksaw from the garage. Now the googled man had two weapons. He had a revolver and a hacksaw. The guy crept up the staircase and snuck into the slumbering drunk’s bedroom. He pressed the gun to the abusive prick’s temple and squeezed the trigger. Brains flew around the room like confetti. He sliced off the right hand of the dead man, symbolizing in the killer’s mind the loss of favor from God, the right hand of God.

The killer was later apprehended and the media gave him the moniker

“Wrath Killer.” This was the thirteenth murder committed by this maniac, Tony Raines. He had been abused as a boy by his father and twelve years after running away from home, he had completed his final murder. All the men he had murdered were white males with a history of physically abusing their children. Tony later admitted to a psychiatrist in prison he felt that after years of suffering abuse at his father’s hands, he had become possessed by the demon known as Wrath. Tony believed this demon forced his hand to commit murder. This is why the press called him the

“Wrath Killer.”


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