Hayden

Chapter One

A/N: The video above is the book trailer. I hope you all enjoy the story, thank you so much for stopping by!

I need to stop this. It is not right. This world is falling apart before our eyes, and no one is doing a goddamned thing about it.

//

"Pass me a cigarette." I coaxed the stranger next to me. He glared at me unappealingly, but executed the gesture and flicked open a small cardboard box with his skin-torn thumb.

I cringed at the sight of dry blood on his nail. He had a burning cigarette between his lips handed me a fresh one with his middle and index fingers. I took it without thanking him and looked away as quickly as I had snatched it.

"Need a light?" the stranger asked. I briefly shook my head and hopped off the bar stool I had been seated in for most of the day; my boots hitting the hardwood floor with a loud thud. I headed for the door, the loud music from inside growing quieter.

I am bombarded by the many voices, car horns, and footsteps that saturate the outside. The crisp Autumn air caught me by surprise, but felt good. Fall was finally here.

I need a scarf.

...

The city had never looked so calm since I moved. People were walking back and forth, not even looking at me—as if I was not of existence. It didn't bother me, though. I liked being alone. I liked being unnoticeable.

I reached into my front pocket and pulled out a small yellow lighter that I had held onto for years. I drew my thumb across the flint wheel, making it spin without igniting the prepubescent flame. I contemplated lighting the cigarette, remembering that I have never smoked a day in my life.

This was a habit. I always thought about it.

I cannot stand the smell of smoke, but I get some sort of satisfaction from watching the paper burn and ashes descend to the ground.

It is not an addiction; it is a hobby—pleasing to the eye, and satisfying to the brain.

I applied more pressure to the flint wheel, forcing the small flame to erupt. I watched it gently dance in the wind, and repeated the previous gesture after a sudden gust blew it out.

I placed the cigarette between my lips and covered it with my left hand to block the breeze from killing the flame again. After the nicotine-filled paper was lit, I removed it from my lips swiftly, watching it burn between my fingers.

The smell drove me insane. Millions of tightly packed chemicals sat right between my fingertips, but I would never allow myself to ingest them.

I don't know why I torture myself by doing this, but it makes me feel better. It clears my horrendous thoughts and pulls me into a world that only my eyes can witness: a vivid sense of peace and normality.

I continued walking down the busy street, trying my hardest to avoid every person I passed by. I flicked the cigarette to be rid of the growing length of ashes, and watched as I received dirty looks from women in short skirts and leather coats: Chicago's very own hookers.

A smirk formed on my face. Their looks didn't bother me. They made money by fucking random guys and flashing their extremities, I had nothing to worry about.

I sucked in a deep breath, accidentally inhaling the lingering smoke, and coughed repeatedly. My lungs burned from the mixture of cool air and nicotine. It was then that I tossed the cigarette to the concrete and stomped it out with my boot.

I need to stop this.

...

Living in a big city, I had always been surrounded by tragedy and wrongdoings which formed me into a terrifying monster; or at least that is how I see myself. I was always dragged to church, though I never really saw the purpose. I'm not a very religious guy, but I do want to make it into heaven some day—though the chances of that are second-to-none.

My younger brother and I were thrown in and out of foster homes nearly our entire lives. We never knew what family or love was. We never felt needed or wanted by anyone. As a result of that I emancipated myself at fifteen and a half; thus, my brother and I were separated. I have not seen him in three years.

My parents were not parents to me—to us. They tossed Brandon and I around like shoulder bags, and never told us that we were loved. Our birth parents drank immense amounts of alcohol day in and day out whilst shooting up heroin and abusing other illegal drugs. Brandon was too young to know or understand any of it, but I knew it wasn't right.

Whatever God there is, he does not want that. My brother and I did not deserve that, and that is why I had to kill them.

I was thirteen years old.