It wasn’t that he thought it was okay to kill people, in fact, he thought it was weird as shit, but he just liked it too much.
Little Richie Cummings, known by his parents as Richard J Cummings III, was a little runt of a boy. He couldn’t climb over the bigger logs and therefore was left behind as the other boys tromped through the woods. Now this isn’t a sob story, he didn’t mind all too much. His dad, Richard J Cummings II or as his friends liked to call him: J, had given Richie a pocket knife for his birthday. It was a real work of a job, wooden handle, the blade was some sort of strong metal. Richie liked to think it was the same type of metal the samurais used on their swords.
In this time of being left behind in the woods, he would sit against the fallen log, the one he couldn’t climb over, and whittle. Richie felt that he was a normal kid and his life, for the most part, seemed to progress normally, until that summer where he felt his mind begin to slip.