He was only six or seven, when it started, tidy and polite as a little boy of his stature must be. Blaine Anderson was the very definition of proper.

It started with a cat.

Blaine had a hard time connecting with others, he never had any problems socializing with them, he was a people pleaser. Even as a small child he would charm old ladies and teachers. He read books that were much higher reading level than those of his age. Sadly no one is perfect, and for Blaine, it started with a cat.

It was a miserable thing, cold and fat with a litter of kittens, starving for a bowl of milk to nourish it’s young. Blaine cursed it, he knew if his mother found it they’d take in the sad creature, this helpless thing, it disgusted him.

The cat nuzzled against leg, wanting something from him, something it did nothing to deserve, he felt nothing but contempt for this sad creature.

He didn’t know how it happened.

At first he was thinking, brooding over the stupid cat, how disgusting and idiotic it was. How he wished specimens like that would just disappear. And then the next thing he knew he had kicked the pregnant cat square in the stomach. He heard a strangle noise coming from the creature. He kicked it again, this time in the face, and saw blood. It felt as though he couldn’t control his actions, he was seeing tunnel vision, blind anger. He took his two small hands and wrapped them around the weakling, and began to tighten them, more and more looking strait into the cat’s eyes.

That was the first moment Blaine saw life draining from a creature’s eyes. It was like a drug, afterwards he tried to feel ashamed, he threw the cat in the garbage and kept that precious golden moment of life being taken from the animal in his memory for later to daydream about.

Sadly, murder is very much a drug, and Blaine Anderson would soon turn out to be an addict.