I tell you my story from my hospital bed. The hospital is a fascinating concept. An array of men, hardly any women, in white lab coats tells you what they think is bothering you, yet your account is gibberish to them. I assured Dr. Ingénu[1], “It’s the children; it’s the children doing this to me, ”. To that, he simply replied, “Why, there are no children here… This is geriatrics. Those here are far from children, I’m afraid.” Ignorant man, he can’t hear them.


My story starts in 1951 in the very heart of the world, Paris. As a failed entrepreneur, I decided to venture into “non-profit”, so to speak, business. A growing recession in France was creating a quandary for our people. So that spring, on the crisp morning of June 6th, the Malfaisance Orphanage of St. Cipriano[2] creaked open its old wooden doors in the abandoned alleyway. The stenches from the sewers were unbearable! Mice and rodents inhabited the floorboards, but the women of Paris were desperate, and I, always the philanthropist, welcomed them with open arms, (for a small fee of course). The French government had consented to donate 2 million francs to my cause, per year. It was noon when the first beggar dragged herself up to my gate. Carrying two twin newborns, she implored, “Please, I beg. I have no food, no water. My babies, they are dying, I have no hope.” “But have you my fee? 60 francs, and no less.” The women would shudder at my wide grin, resplendent with decaying gums and missing teeth. Most would reluctantly surrender the scarce cash, but for a few I gave a lucky, gracious, exception.
I took the two infants, coddled in pastel pink and white and pleasantly shut the door on the poor maman. From there, the events are parallel for each case. I would bring les pauvres to my office. The darlings suspected nothing, for how could they. Atop muffled cries I’d gently, ever so delicately, press a decorative pillow over their faces until the screams ceased. Then, incredibly prudently, I’d make several incisions to separate each limb. Most meat would be poured into a pot and cooked, roasted, and entirely chilled for a fine, icy supper of vichyssoise each evening. The head and skins were tossed into the crematorium in the basement. The first dozen instances drove me cold to the core. Now I winced no more, this being a habitual routine. The voices of the angels sang to me, they warned me, pleaded that I repent my sin, but I could not. The money was glorious. The children would have starved to death otherwise, I convinced myself. I took million after million, investing in fur coats and the finest of wines. By God, I had seven breathtaking chandeliers! You must understand now, it was out of my control. Mankind cannot be given wealth and be expected to willingly relinquish it! I did not dare.
Months, years, even decades passed and my deeds went virtually unnoticed. If a government official threatened inspection, I’d advertise my infamous deals! In the spirit of charity, I’d offer the children a home for free, and the desperate indigents would line up for blocks, rain or snow, praying for this second chance for their babies. I snickered at my cunning. What brilliance! Who would not rejoice in the strength of one’s own brain? I am no fiend: I gain no humor from these mortalities, for you see, the victims are not people yet! Following months of turmoil, I perceived the truth. My tots, no older than two years were not fully there in a sense, at all. Does a child not start memory from ages three or four, at the earliest? These were not true men, and I was only taking them before their true birth into wisdom and substantial existence.
It was November 2nd, 1966 that the last baby was dropped at my steps. He was He was solely adorned with a nametag, Ange de Représailles[3]. He was beautiful boy, blessed with golden curls and sapphire eyes. I set to rid of him before the accursed connotation of his name could vex me any further. The lad stared at me with complete impassiveness as I laid him on the table for the operation. I almost thought to myself to spare the boy, to keep his as my own successor, but my greed violently shook the thought away. After not even a single cry, the infant’s heart slowed to a halt, and with one lone tear, I proceeded onward with the remainder of the procedure. Limb after limb, I sawed the boy until he resembled nothing but a pile of entrails.
That night at the supper table, my hunger was immeasurable, unsustainable. After imbibing the entirety of the elixir, I growled at the empty bowl in front of me and retired to my chamber for the evening. The night was tireless. She taunted me with sleep, but forced my eyes unfastened. It was then that I heard the soft wailing, its source unknown. The cries grew louder and louder, doubling, then tripling in amount. My hands compressing upon my ears as I ran to the laboratory, to the kitchen, to the basement looking for the escaped child, but the cries followed me at fixed volume. The pitches stalked me onto the front steps, where I collapsed from a sudden, unbearable pain. My heart was being scraped apart by the very claws of the devil himself. The shrieks of the infants were joined by my own, but I could not fight against them much longer. I fished the jagged knife from my pocket and pierced the demon at its source. My eyes blinked to a close as the first snowfalls of winter dusted over my back.


I can only assume the ambulance found me shortly thereafter by complaint from a passerby. They took me to this godforsaken hospital where Dr. Ingénu informed me of my urgent need for surgery and mental care. I pitied Dr. Ingénu’s naïveté, and even tried to reason with the imbecile to the best of my abilities. “You are sadly mistaken, Doctor. My health is completely sound, this the demon infant!”, I would exclaim. He only misunderstood and continuously reassured me, “This is not death! God has graced you with survival from such an unfortunate accident. As you said will be in good health, and we have several residential care offerings for you to investigate post-op.” He smiled with genuine warmth as he placed the anesthetic mask over my nose. My eyes fluttered as my body battled to keep conscience in order to protest the procedure. A silhouette began to trace itself in the dark corners of my mind. He spoke to me in a sly murmur, jovial in his success. The infamous fiend fostered blond locks where the myth claims horns, and sapphire eyes in place of the demonic red. He whispered, jeeringly, in my ear, “La vengeance, comme ta soupe, est un mets que l'on doit manger froid.”[4]


Footnotes
[1] French: Starry-eyed, innocently unaware
[2] St. Cipriano is believed to be the “Evil Saint”, who turned from God. He was a saint of magicians before burning his book of methods against the devil in front of the bishop.
[3] French: Angel of Retribution
[4] French: Revenge, like your soup, is a dish best served cold