Warren Peace always had time to think. To analyze.
He spent most of his time in his thoughts.
He could spend hours mulling over an idea, days consumed by one single thought. Warren Peace was not the type of person to let any thought fly from his mouth the second it appeared in his head, grabbed his attention.
When he was a child, much of his time was consumed in thoughts about
hate
betrayal
loyalties
murder
respect
and why?
Believe it or not, Warren once had
friends.
But that was,
before...
Before his father broke his mother's heart. Before his father shattered half the city in anger. Before his father destroyed their
family.
Grief had rocked his mother's body and she collapsed in front of the television. And she bleed.
Blood soaking through her dress at the juncture of her hips, Warren didn't understand or comprehend besides one fleeting thought about his little, helpless
brother.
For months and years, people looked at him and his mother with disdain and hate, not once considering the possibility that they'd been
hurt
the worst.
His friends abandoned him when he needed them to cope, their parents snarling angry at him as if he'd assisted his father in the murders.
At a time, his father was respected. Warren once considered that they maybe respected him, too. But Warren now knew that it was only
fear.
Fear that he would Snap. Be like his father. Be evil. Kill them.
They walked on eggshells around him.
Careful.
And Warren Peace once imagined what those people were thinking of him.
If they had the guts,
what would they say to him?
If he ever had the grounds,
what would he say?
"I'm not my father."
Definitely. Defiantly.
And he imagined the response.
"Prove it."