Owen entered his house to see Mr. and Mrs. Munson embracing in the middle of the living room. It wasn't unusual. His family were the hugging type. You got an A on your test? Time for a hug. You ate your peas? Time for a hug. It should have been a normal display of affection, but the state of his father threw him for a loop. Mr. Munson's back was to Owen, a massive hole in the back of Mr. Munson's head. Owen lost his balance with the shock of seeing his father that way. He knocked over the coat rack and struggled with picking it up with all the coats. Mrs. Munson's heavily lined eyes shot open.

"Owen, honey. I'm so glad you're home!" Mrs. Munson fawned.

When Mr. Munson turned around, he looked perfectly normal, albeit exceptionally handsome for his age. Mr. Munson had the type of look and sound that reeked of charm. He was basically every woman's type in some way. If his large blue eyes or his huge alluring smile didn't get them, his sharp jawline or athletic physique was sure to win them over.  And when he spoke it made radio announcers green with envy. It was very handy in his business. Munson Tech. He sold overpriced electronics, and was a hell of a salesman.

"Hey, champ!" he said. "Bit of a dispute with the coat rack?"

"Oh," Owen laughed nervously, "It's just happy to see me."

Mrs. Munson, whom was every bit as lovely as her husband was handsome, looked ready to burst with anticipation. Her face was lit up like the North Star, signaling that they already knew what he didn't plan on telling them--that an Ivy League scout was coming to watch his game tonight.

"We just heard the good news!" she burst, confirming his suspicions.

"Bunny, we were supposed  to wait for it," Mr. Munson said with humor.

"Oh, what the hay, Sam, I'm just so excited," she said. "My boy. An Ivy League student."

"He hasn't chose me, yet, mom," Owen said.

"Phooey," she said, making her way toward him noisily in her high heels. "They will if they know what's good for them. Come here."

She snatched him in a tight hug. Her thick strawberry blonde hair was teased and it tickled Owen's nose. She kissed his cheek when she pulled away and he noticed her red lipstick was a little lighter. He knew he'd see the marks if he looked in a mirror.

"We're so proud of you," she said.

"Mom, we don't even know yet-"

"You'll knock their socks off, pal," Mr. Munson assured him. He gave a wink.

Owen rolled his eyes and excused himself. He took the stairs swiftly, went in his room, and shut the door. It was more than he could handle right now. His mother's words echoed. We're so proud of you. He felt sick. In the restroom that connected to his bedroom, he stood over the toilet, willing himself to hold down his lunch. He glanced over at his mirror. The red lips print on his cheek reminded him of the blood he'd mentally fabricated on Renee. It flickered in his mind's eye like a strobe until he took a deep breath and shook his head defiantly.

What was wrong with him? Why did he have this damned obsession with blood and death? He was crazy, he figured.

We're so proud of you. What would his parents say if they knew about these urges he had? If they knew he wasn't their perfect and blessed son. Something dark was in him. What if they knew that instead of daydreaming about making out with his girlfriend, he daydreamed about different ways to kill her? Or that when he met a stranger's eyes in public, he often saw them with eyes of the dead? And worst of all, that he often found himself getting some sort of satisfaction out of it?

His mind went over scenarios. He pictured his mother screaming and running out of the house, the neighbor's all on their lawns with curious and judgmental faces. He saw his father on the phone with priests, claiming the devil was inside his son. He saw himself wearing a straightjacket in a padded room. He let go of his stomach contents then.

We're so proud of you.

The person they were proud of wasn't really him. It was the person he wanted to be. Someone normal. He needed help.