I'm not a bad person.

At least, I don't believe that I am.

You might think I'm a twisted man, just because what I do seems foreign and obscure to you. But trust me, if you possibly can. For what I do has perfect reason and logic backed up behind it. Every move made, every word spoken. I don't do it for fun because I have a sick and evil mind... On the contrary, I'm quite mentally stable, believe it or not.

I do what I do, because I have a duty. A duty that I have been planning and waiting to perform ever since I was a young boy. About thirteen or so. The memories are still hazy, so I can't be sure. In fact, all of my memories from before that horrid day have unfortunatley vanished from my mind... They all went away with that single flash of red.

Every happy dinner conversation, every Christmas caroll at the neighbor's door, every smile passed between me and her... Poof. All gone. I don't know whether to be glad of that or not. So for now, I will continue to remain unsure.

Oblivious of my past, and overly aware of my future.

Now, a few of you may be wondering as to who I am... My name? You will learn in good time. What is my duty? Hah! How long I've been waiting for somone willing enough to ask. I will not tell you bluntly though.

I once dared to speak of my job to a young child; how brave she had been, walking straight up to my seat on the bench, pulling at my leather coat and staring up at me with those huge green eyes. I couldn't help but smile at the girl, seeing as she looked just like- like her. I am usually very contsricting with my emotions, because I believe that if you broadcast your feelings to world around you, it makes your being vulnerable.

Weak.

But I smiled anyways for the briefest of seconds, quickly letting my twitch of a grin sink back into a blank stare and propping my walls back up. I remember the curious quirk in her eyebrows as she asked who I was, and what I did. I will not lie... it did catch me a bit off guard. I wasn't used to people coming up to me and chatting.

Usually, I repelled people. I am the type of man that your parents teach you at a young age to stay away from. I recall the whole, crazed-phsyco-killer across the street lesson. I was seen as the type of man that you shouldn't walk up to or take any candy from... But that is beside the point.

I had told this little girl quite bluntly what my name is and what my duty is. My denstiny. The one act that will fufill my life.

It resulted with her flooding the sidewalks with liquid saddness, and her mother pulling her away with hands over her child's miniature and rosy ears. I will never truly forget that glare. That glare from the mother of the child. Sure, I had gotten mean looks before because of what I do and who I am, but never have I gotten one so... convincing?

I don't know if that is the right word to describe it. Her simple facial expression held so much. Hate, distrust, fear... She was the last face that I needed to see to finally convince myself that I am not- right.

Or at least, not like everyone else.

So instead of coming right out and saying it, I will give you some background to my miserable life... Maybe it'll give you a chance to see things from my side of the story. Maybe you won't shut me out and walk away.

Give me a chance, that's all I ask. Listen to my story. See what I've had to go through.

Don't worry. It won't take long.

I promise.

Actually, I'm surprised that you've decided to stick around for so long. Most people would've run away already, pointing and screaming. But you? No, you're different. You're special. Though, I will be honest with you. I don't believe that you've made the wisest decision.

Once you're in my world, there's no going back.

When you learn my story, my past, my reason for committing crimes, you'll never think the same way again. While I believe this is a great thing, society will rally against you; shun you. They think that I'm not human... but in reality, I'm better than them. Stronger. Braver.

Whenever you're sitting on the couch, watching the news with your small child napping on you lap and your spouse's arm around your shoulder, and the casters are chatting away about the newest inmate at a high security jail, your first thought won't be, "Good riddance, that criminal should stay in jail! Let him rot for what he's done.", it'll instead be, "I wonder what ever happened to that man as a child. What made him do the thing he did?"

But that doesn't mean that I want you to feel bad for me. No, keep your sympathy to yourself.

You'll just begin to wonder what events led up to the crime, and because of them, does the crime seem a bit more justifiable?

Remember when I told you that I am stronger and braver? Well, it's true. I'm not afraid to bring justice into my own hands. In fact my name, Roldan, means strong and brave. It suits me well. Perhaps at birth, my parents realized how much potential I held. They knew I could fix all things wrong with society.

She liked my name as well. I remember her telling me that I was called Roldan because I was born to... born to prote- nevermind. That's a story for another time.

To better understand me, you need to know my family first. As I mentioned before, my parents probably knew that I would grow up to be the human that I am. Well, at least my father did. With how I was treated and taught as a child? It was expected.

I stopped celebrating my birthday after that horrid day, so I cannot remember exactly how many years ago, but when I was a child I grew up in Duluth, Minnesota. My parents were named Harold and Tabatha Greene.

At the time, my father Harold worked in a pocket watch factory. He was the employee who would scan the hands, gears, and sprockets when they came down the line and made sure that there were no defects. He was not a greatly respected man in his line of work. But, even if it was only by me, he still believed that he was the best. That he was better than everyone else.

I used to believe that my father was a genius. A man who was the God of clock work. In fact, he was probably the one who I inherited my horrible habit from. When my father had free time; which wasn't often since he insisted on working overtime, he would be at home in the cellar, taking apart different kinds of clocks. The thing is... he would put them back together when he was done.

You would think that my old home was filled with scrappy stop watches and wall clocks, but really, he only ever worked on three. Over and over and over again. Some might see it as a psychilogical issue, but my thoughts? I believed that it was undisputedly interesting and facinating. I remember sitting cross-legged on the stony and cold cellar floor, watching my father work at his small desk with the utmost concentration. I can recall all of the tiny screw drivers and the bright head-light that he used to wear.

I also remember how my father used to push his small square specticals up the bridge of his large and curved nose, sometimes just letting them fall off because he was so focused. If I close my eyes tight enough, I can actually picture my father in whole, though I prefer not to. With his slick black hair and his Les Daltons mustache. He was a heavy set Italian descendant. The familiar scent of his La Costa cologne lingering thick in the air of the tiny black cellar. My mother always hated how much of that crude fragrance he wore.

My mother... she was such a lovely creature. The most kind hearted woman there ever was. When I was upset, she was the first one that I would run to with her warm embraces and nurturing words. Her hair was a sweet chocolate and honey color, her eyes a pale brown. Tabatha Greene was the definition of beautiful in my eyes. She held no job and kept up the typical house-wife appearances. Though she desired to go out into the world and explore, she knew that her priorities laid in her home and with her only child.

What surprised me most about my parents was how different they were... My mother was the sweetest person in the world, but my father; while I respected his work and habits, was a horrible man.

You see, I left out the most important part of my childhood. One of the two major events that would twist my life and change me into the thing that I am now.

My mother's death.

Little did I know, that before my mother had died, she had actually been keeping my father's violence tendencies at bay. I never realized that without this wonderful woman in my life, I would've been beaten to a pulp at a young age. It upsets me though, that she took the beatings herself. To prote- protect me!

I could've taken it though!

I could've been stronger than I already am! My mother suffered when I should've been in her place! What did she think I was... weak? How dare she think of me as weaker than her! I was able to hold my own as a child, constantly having to take verbal abuse from kids at school. I could've helped her! I could've saved her from the unnesessary pain!

Forgive me for my loss in temper, but I do not approve of people thinking of me as a weak soul. I can take it. I could've taken it. While I loved my mother deeply, I have yet to forgive her for not informing me of her situation. Since, because of the violence, she had to die at the hand of my father.

Which she didn't deserve. Nobody should have to suffer and have the last thing they see on this Earth be my "father's" twisted and cruel face.

It had been a week after my mother's funeral when my father finally began to abuse me. I wasn't used to it at first, but after a couple of days, I toughened up and got over it. It only took me a month to stop crying when it happened, and eventually I got used to seeing the ugly scars. The year of Tabatha Greene's death was also the year that I began to isolate myself. My father took extra shifts at the factory, and I would run home from school as fast as possible.

I would shut the door to my room, closing off the rest of the world... and that's when I started with my clocks. Do you remember what I told you about those three clocks that my father was always working on? Well, it turns out that he had one for himself, one for my mother, and one for me. When my mother was about to be buried, he had thrown the clock into the casket before walking away. I had run to the casket; looking sideways so that I couldn't see my mother's cold and blue face, and had grabbed the small silver trinket, not wanting the object to be with her. My father wasn't allowed to give my mother gifts after what he had done to her.

I had slipped it into my pocket, and it was the first one that I began working on. My father, oblivious to everything I did, had no idea what I was doing in my room, and only ever abused me if he was drunk enough or mad enough.

I eventually got so good at building the clock, that I could make it with my eyes closed. Which bored me. Which is why I began stealing things. I enjoyed the thrill and rush that I would get when I exited a store, my pockets filled with tiny clocks and trinkets. I mostly targeted hardware stores. And that was as far as I ever got.

I never wanted to be like my father; brutally abusing all who got close to him, which is why I practiced being the best theif I could be, because I never wanted to be confronted with the oppurtunity where I needed to become violent with someone.

While all of this was happening, I was only twelve years old. I wonderful theif at twelve! Can you believe it? I was so proud of myself! Who could say when they came back to school, "This summer I robbed four hardware stores, two car-part shops, and never got caught!"? I was at the height of my prime.

And then I met her. The one girl who changed my life forever. The one who showed me what true love is. But like I said earlier, that is a story for another time. Besides, I don't believe in love anymore. Ever since the incident? How could I be expected to?

Without getting into details about the girl, I can tell you that she turned my life around, making me happier than I had ever been. I had trusted her with all of my thirteen year old heart. Whenever my father went too far, she was the one I would run to. But then... something happened to her. Something- bad. She was no longer there when I needed her. And now... now my purpose in life? My duty? The thing that I must do to fufill my hopes and dreams?

Well, it's actually quite simple.

I, Roldan Greene, must have revenge. I'm strong, superior, smarter... so I will win.

I must destroy Big Time Rush.

Okay, I re-wrote this story because I had it up once, and it was really short, so I decided to put a hell of a lot more detail, and creepy stuff :D I think it's actually much better than before... I'm sooo sorry to my Romantic Heart readers! I'm seriously trying to get the next chapter updated, and I know I promised that it would be up last weekend, but school is butchering me down! I'll try to put it up by tomorrow...

This chapter is written from the bad guy's POV, because I like to give my evil people a past. I feel it gives the reader more of an insight into the person's mind, and how their line of thinking works... If that makes any sense at all! Lol. The next one will be from the boy's POV. And since they know nothing about Roldan, he won't be mentioned until later... When he makes a bunch of creepy appearences. Btw, eventually, you will know the story as to why he wants revenge, and who this mystery girl was. But that wont come until A LOT later. Hope you enjoyed reading!

Review? :D

Whatever the aliens say,

TealMoose