Midnight Murderers

24. The Prodigal Son

N A T H A N / A Z A I R E

The annoying knocking didn't stop even after I had tried to stuff the noise out with the help of my pillows. One sharp knock after the other, I finally opened my eyes in mere annoyance, ready to kill just about anyone.

"Open it already, Nathan." Angel whined from the bed, comfortably wrapped in various blankets whereas I froze on the tiny couch. Another series of knocks bounced off the walls and she hissed in her sleep. "Nathan!" She whined once more.

I rolled my eyes and threw my blanket off my body, getting up and marching towards the door. Yanking it open, I was met with an equally annoyed Theo, whose fist was up in the air, probably ready to disturb my sweet sleep again.

"How may I help you?" Sarcasm laced my tone.

"Rise and shine, sunshine." He smiled, punching my stomach for no reason. I doubled over slightly, the air being knocked out of my system. Before I could wheeze out any insult, Theo turned around and walked away. "Emergency meeting...with the seniors!"

This time, I didn't need any physical blow to knock the air out of my lungs.

Seniors.

That's what we called the elders of this brutal organization. The men who built us up from the ground below. The ones who gave us a name.

The ones who raised me.

I shake my head slightly at that as I shrugged on a white button-up. I looked up at the mirror in front of me, buttoning it up. They're not the ones who raised me.

I breathed out, and then in, and then repeated the process until the shakiness in my breath subdued noticeably. I locked eyes with my reflection again. They did not raise me. They're the ones who turned me into the monster that I am today. And they're proud of it.

I never wanted this, I never wanted to be a representative. I had a good childhood, I never knew about this part of my family until I was thrown brutally into it. And once my skin scraped against the concrete of this house of madness, I had to realize that there was no way out.

I am just glad I had a good childhood. Or at least that's what I tell myself whenever my depression gets out of hand. I tell myself that I had hopes once, I had dreams, and love didn't make me flinch. I tell myself that I played highschool soccer, and that I was good at it, I failed calculus, I lost Prom King, I almost drowned in my summer camp's pool, I baked cookies with my Mom on Christmas Eve, I screamed and cried when I fell off my bike on my first ride, but most importantly, I had people who picked me up from that fall.

I cleared my throat, adding final touches to my look.

My Seniors took care of me ever since I was 16, and their ways of upbringing was different than the one I was used to. It involved more actions instead of words, more pushes than helping hands, and there were definitely no Christmas cookies.

But that's not why my hands trembled when I reached out to tie my shoe laces. No, not at all.

I haven't seen my Seniors since I moved away to America years ago. Once I was confident enough that I had learned enough about the gang life, I packed my bags and made a beeline for as far away from them as possible. I was old enough, I had enough respect to my name and more than enough responsibility on my shoulder, so they let me go.

Until now.

I fiddled with my rings. It's time for a family reunion.

"Nathan?"