My knives clang together, sending echoes throughout the entire kitchen. Pots and pans dangle from the ceiling and rattle together gently, sounding more like window chimes then cooking tools. The stove sizzles quietly adding to the melodic chant being created by the unspoken visitors. I grab one of the chicken breast from the fridge and put on a new set of latex gloves. I grab my knife once more and send it plunging into the chicken. Pleasure dances down to my toes, I happily cut the chicken to bits. I take a deep breath as my murderous temptations are satisfied at last. Of course no one knows this of me. Who would ever trust a head chef who has instincts to kill by the hour. Heck, at this point I can’t trust myself around anyone. For some reason, the endless cutting and prodding helps satisfy something I can only diagnose. I picture my children’s faces and their smiles. How tragic it would be if I were to send one of my cleavers through their hearts. I let out a cry, trying to shake the vivid image from my head. The picture lingers as I move on to chopping carrots. They crunch softly underneath my knife and I feel the power ooze throughout my body. I know I’m probably a psycho or belong in an insane asylum or something, but I just can’t bare to give up the life I still manage to love. So, I remain secreted from the world for my own good. I am nothing but a selfish man who only keeps a job because of my inability to spill a secret that could ruin the lives of everyone around me.

A/N: I was bored and wrote this in 5 minutes, I like it but it could probably be stronger I guess. I sort of just had this concept but couldn’t really commit.