Houses of Matchsticks

Devil's Spawn

Four Years Prior…

Four families, three seemingly unconnected cases, two rapes, and a secret that will never go shared is the record of a man that went by no name, only a disturbing mug-shot shown on the eleven o clock news. As the spawn of him and my mother, I, Axel, can honestly say that I am the son of one of the greatest killers to grace the county in twenty years. He was locked up about a decade ago; no one knew this devilish man had a son. They had no idea that his offspring would carry the torch in his back pocket, lit by the carrier himself with a silver-cased lighter with the initials of his favorite author- reading E.A.P –etched into the side just in case someone suspected this lighter of any wrongdoing. I would drop all connections to it in a nanosecond to save myself should a situation like that come up.

My father was a family man. He loved us to death what with the way he cheated on my mom and smacked me around like some sort of Weebul that wobbles but does not fall down. Oh I fell down alright—every sucker punch to the gut sent me into the wall; every smack across the face left a tingling red handprint on my cheek; every last insult was a brick dropping on my skull, ever-slowly breaking it down bit by bit. I could take it. I was never a weak little boy. The very thought of that made me sick and sent me into fits of rage. Weakness was a flaw I would never bear, I promised myself at a very young age. Father would never let it happen anyway. With how he treated me I was never weak. By the time I was thirteen, my mom was paranoid and refused to leave her room; if she did she would go into panic mode. Shortly into my thirteenth year, dad was arrested and mom was hospitalized, but until the very end she protected my existence. She would come up with excuses for all the boy stuff lying around the house and lie through her teeth. She even went so far- when the police first showed up at our house –as to order me to burn my own birth certificate. That was coincidentally the day I became a pyromaniac. After destroying proof of my existence, I escaped with the lighter I used to do the dirty deed.

I fled. A year later was the first incident in a series that would send my neighborhood into frenzy and the police into a frantic goose chase. They had no clue that their target did not exist. They had no proof that I was ever born. I never did so hot in school so my parents never hung anything up on the fridge. I was a deprived boy with a lot of anger to release. I had no clue what to do with it. Now living with my aunt- the only person outside immediate mom/dad family that knew of my life –I was becoming enamored with fire. It started with the way I ended my life simply by igniting a sheet of paper. The way the reds and oranges flickered fascinated me. They gave me pleasure. They made me want more. They made me want to do things that were not healthy or safe or anything you are taught in school. So I gave in to the temptation caused by a single, simple silver lighter.

I would always light candles for my aunt's baths. I would start the fireplace if she ever asked. I would aimlessly stare into the whispering flames of my lighter for hours without saying a single word, not needing any other way to convey my fascination. That was, until one night, sometime around midnight, I snuck out of my aunt's house with a horsetail rope, my prized possession, a two-liter bottle filled with gasoline, and a piece of paper. I skillfully ducked to the back of the house, which thankfully had a high-up porch where I could hide. I could see the forest behind the house, the street in front of it, tall hedges surrounding it on both sides. It was like a castle protected by a mote. The downside of the mote—when the castle catches fire, the king and queen cannot escape.

I poured a little gasoline on one of the porch's stilts, the shingles, and very carefully got the crack between the door and the ground wet with the liquid without going up the steps. I tightly knotted the eighteen foot rope around the same stilled I doused in gas. I took the rest of the rope and edged quietly towards the woods, trying not to step on twigs. I did not want anything to ruin this for me. If this town thought my dad was an artist with his mastery of covering his tracks, wait until they saw my artwork with the way I was about to paint this house a thousand shades of ember. My dad could never think up something this clever, though. Unlike him, I had no concern for the people in the two-story home. They never did me wrong, but so what? They were my victims. This is the way it had to be.

With no more rope to tug, I whipped out my lighter and stared at it. This was it. Once I lit this gasoline-dipped rope on fire, this house was going down and there was nothing anyone could do about it. I stuck the tip of the rope to my lighter. Flick. I ran into the forest behind the house and slyly made my escape through the dense thickets. If I could get far enough, they would never catch me.

Not even eighteen hours later, I caught a report on the news at my aunt's house, which I temporarily decided to reside in until it was time to bolt, which I knew would come very soon. As my aunt wept at the story of her townspeople that lived no more than a hundred yards down the street, I tried to keep my composition. It was everything I could do not to laugh.

The television told us, "The Strife family- consisting of Sephiroth, Aerith, and their son Cloud –was killed earlier this morning when a fire, anonymously started with no clues leading to who might have done it. All that remained at the scene was a plain white sheet of paper tucked under the roots of a tree. Officials are saying that even though there are no leads other than this, the arson that murdered this innocent suburban family will go to prison for a minimum of twenty years, no parole."

Real Time…

I groan as my dead emerald eyes open to the May Sunday morning. I have dreaded this day since Isa took the liberty of not only getting me in as part of his church's congregation but signing me up for his support group. His whole 'purification plan' bothers me a little, but it could not hurt to get out of my apartment once in a while. I spend most of my time sleeping in various places around the single-bedroom hellhole I call home. I wonder how the owner was willing to sell to a non-existent person, but my fake ID- which technically is not fake –washes those trivial worries away. I glance at the ID sitting on the bedside table. It says my real name. It says my real age and that I turn nineteen in a few months. The shit cellphone on the same table as my ID rings. Caller ID reads Saix, which is my code name for Isa in case anyone snatches my phone. Everyone in here is under a faux name from my old accomplice Braig (listed as Xigbar) to my own personal therapist (who is really just the extremely intelligent son of one) Zexion, listed as Ienzo. It all has to be done out of caution. If one day they catch me for the mistake I made four years ago, then I will most definitely be fucked for life.

"Yo," I answer the phone that insists on ringing. I force myself to sit up. "What's up, Isa?"

"You remember you're coming to church with me today, right?" he asks, obviously agitated. Come on, I just woke up and the man's already on my case. Sometimes I really wish he would just go away, but if he had not been there for me in my most desperate time of need, then I would be in prison for a minimum of twenty years with no parole or bail.

"Yes, I do," I assure him, rubbing one of my eyes, scratching my head through the spikes of auburn hair that grow out of it. I never liked the way that it did its spikes. I always try to straighten them down and when I do I look damn good, but it seems to bother Isa. My hair used to be the color of a cherry, but now it is more like an apple. After burning down the Strife household I did my best to change my appearance so no one would remember the little boy Axel that used to run down the street, always carrying around a shimmery little lighter.

"Good. Get your lazy ass dressed. I'll be over in ten minutes."

"I hate you." I scowl at my wall, pretending it is Isa.

I hear him smiling through the aggravated tone in his voice. "I hate you too, Ax."

Click.

Now that is friendship.

"Why the hell did you have to drag me here?" I ask monotonously to Isa, who looks very different with his sky blue hair pulled into a low ponytail, white dress shirt tucked into pleated black plants over a pair of clean gray Converses that are identical to mine only mine are the same color as my eyes- a striking jade green.

"You should really try accepting God instead of shoving him away, Ax. It does nothing for you if you sit around on your mopey ass all day. You don't even do anything anymore. Get out once in a while. Be cool. Go on a date. Get laid." Isa continues to list off suggestions that would never work for me because I never get out of the house. How can I get laid if I cannot get a date? And how can I get a date if I am at home asleep on the couch? It's like he has his head up his butt.

He is right about one thing—going on a date might do well for me.

Isa and I take seats in the left section of pews, sitting closer to the front than back. Boy was always a suck up to the big man. I never understand how he puts up with being such a pet.

The sermon starts, and within five minutes I am more than half asleep, struggling not to nod off. That is, until a blonde guy with at least six jars of gel in his hair walks up to the pastor in the front of the chapel. He stands before the pastor. The pastor seems to say a short prayer before having the man face the packed church, unafraid. It's weird. This guy looks really familiar, only when I picture him I'm picturing him smaller. I don't think I ever saw him in person. Maybe it was just a photograph in a newspaper or something.

"Let us not forget our lost loved ones," the pastor says. Lost loved ones, huh? I know how he feels; poor guy. "It is four years today since the death of Sephiroth and Aerith Strife; our own congregation member, Cloud- the only survivor of the catastrophic fire and the son of the lovely couple –has a few words he would like to say."

…You have got to be kidding me. I turn spastically to Isa, who wears a mere look of serenity on his face. My eyes are bulging out of my head. I smack him on the arm. He turns and glares at me. "What is it?" he hisses.

"Dude, I have to get out of here," I tell him as quietly as possible, trying to emphasize my fear. The room starts to close in on me. I know I must be sweating. I think I am going to explode. My stomach churns. My hair, which I actually managed to straighten this morning, is frizzing. My eyes are definitely wild. My head hurts. I feel like I am about to pass out. This world I built up for myself is about to fall apart and I do not want to see it.

Isa peaks an eyebrow. "Why?"

"You remember!" I spit at him. He wipes it blandly off his face.

Isa blinks a few times then nods knowingly. "Right—I forgot you killed his family."

"Ssh!" I hush him angrily and smack his arm again. "This isn't funny! You had to have known he was part of your church. Shit, I didn't even remember today was the four-year. I don't keep track, but they do! They still want me dead! This isn't cool, Isa!"

"Ax, you can't live life hiding from what you did. It's rather suspicious. If you don't face it and at least pretend you didn't do it- at the very least –then you shouldn't freak out at times like this. It isn't that bad. He has no idea who you are. You look different from four years ago. No one saw your face anyway. Now stop complaining or I'm going to shove my foot so far up your stupid ass that your brain will feel it."

I snort. "You're a great pal, Isa."

He smirks and shrugs. "I know."

As much as I don't want to hear Cloud Strife speak a single word (especially since I thought I killed him) I put up with it as casually as possible. On the inside, though, I think I'm going to hurl.

Ah, I love that new story smell. In this case, I smell smoke--lots and lots of smoke. Tell me what you think of this and I'll be happy to update.
Basically, AkuRoku FTW story, but it isn't there yet. It's getting there, but isn't there quite yet. As I tell you in Heartless, I loves you!
:D -Scotty