Chapter 4

My name is Tiana Blake. My twin sister, Tara, and I may share the same face, but we're polar opposites when it comes to morality.

When we were kids, Tara and I once came across a sick puppy on the street. Tara cried, heartbroken over the poor thing's suffering.

I thought about it for a moment, then grabbed the puppy by the neck and snapped it.

In my mind, the fastest way to end suffering is death. Tara, however, screamed and cried uncontrollably.

Every holiday, when we visited relatives and the family butchered pigs, Tara would cry so hard she'd pass out. Meanwhile, I was the one pinning the pigs down, my strength unmatched by anyone else.

Watching the blade sink in, white turning red as steaming blood sprayed across my face, brought me an addictive sense of satisfaction.

As we got older, my parents eventually realized something was off with Tara. She was slow to react to things, so they took her for an evaluation. The doctors diagnosed her with a mild intellectual disability.

Devastated, my parents told me it was my responsibility to look out for her.

I took that mission to heart.

But life has a way of piling on.

One New Year's, some bratty kid called Tara a "retard" and threw firecrackers at us.

I pinned the kid down, lit an entire handful of firecrackers, and shoved them into his mouth.

By the time the firecrackers went off, the kid's baby teeth were blown to bits. His parents wailed and demanded $100,000 in compensation.

My dad made me kneel in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary and pray for forgiveness.

"Tiana," he said, his face full of worry. "Do you understand how much pain you caused his parents? Don't you care about their feelings?"

I thought about it carefully, wondering how to stop them from feeling pain.

Finally, I came to a conclusion.

"Then we should just kill his parents too. That way, they won't feel anything anymore."

The look on my parents' faces shifted to pure horror.

They took me to get evaluated as well.

The results?

They found the so-called "warrior gene" in my DNA.

In short, I was born to be a criminal.

A high IQ combined with a tendency toward extreme violence. Born with freakish strength and a knack for manipulation, my mind naturally gravitated toward solving problems in the most ruthless ways possible.

The doctors were right. Trouble followed me wherever I went.

When I was nine, my classmates made fun of me, saying I looked like the villain from a cartoon.

I lured one of them outside, smashed his mouth with a brick until it was a bloody mess, then ran to the police station crying, claiming he'd attacked me and tripped while chasing me.

At eleven, my uncle owed my dad money and hadn't repaid it for years. At a family dinner, he mocked my dad, calling him money-hungry.

I waited until he got drunk and went outside to pee, then cut his hand so badly it was barely hanging on by a strip of skin.

I ran back to the table, crying to my relatives, claiming he'd tried to touch me inappropriately.

I became a regular at juvenile detention, but I never stayed long. Each time I went, I'd learn a few new tricks before coming back out.

By sixteen, I finally slipped up.