Disclaimer: Hello Super 8 fans! This is my first Super 8 fanfic, and I hope you enjoy it! I love Cary, but I wanted to see more stories about his suffering, and his friends beginning to care more and more about him. So, I decided to write this story. If you want me to continue on to the next chapter, I need a review telling me to do so! I am not very confident in my writing skills, and any praise or criticism, or obsessing over Cary for that matter, is strongly recommended! Thanks!
Note: I do not own Super 8. The great and fantabulous J.J. Abrams does. And thank god for that, because if I owned it, it probably wouldn't be very good.
Chapter One:
It was a nice night in Lillian, Ohio.
The crickets were chirping, the cars weren't driving, and the only big sounds would be the occasional dog barking.
The only thing that wasn't part of the perfect picture was a small boy walking down the street. He was a small boy, but he wasn't very young. He was fourteen years old, with a mouthful of braces, and hair that desperately needed to see a set of scissors. He wore old, faded jeans and a battered pair of sneakers, as well as a blue shirt and a light jacket of some sort. He carried a black backpack with him, as well as a small silver object. His friends knew the object well, but from far away, you couldn't tell what it was.
The boy walked along the street scuffling his feet a little, and muttering harsh words under his breath. He needed the time alone. He didn't like his so called "home".
Ever since he was about seven, he could remember his parents arguing. His father always had a beer or two too many, and his mother never liked it. But she wasn't the comforting kind of person either, and always neglected her introverted son. The two parents fought, and it usually ended up with broken bottles on the floor, bruises and blood for the mother, and a fuming father. The boy would see the result from the staircase, and escape out the window. He'd run away from his old looking house, and keep running until he was a good three blocks away. Then he would walk, as he was now, and think about his life.
The boy stopped at the small park that the town had, and sat on one of the benches. Sometimes, he would just sit there, and other times he would cry. Tonight was one of the latter, and his eyes filled up with tears. He unzipped his black backpack and took out a couple cherry bombs. His entire backpack was filled with things like this; cherry bombs, sparklers, M-80s, and all sorts of other homemade explosives. This was his escape from everything. This was his world.
He took out his silver object, and opened it. It was a lighter. He lit the fuse of one of the small bombs, pulled his legs up onto the bench, and let the explosions begin. The first one exploded, which caused the others surrounding it to explode as well. The boy's eyes began to brighten a little, though they were still filled with tears. He took out some M-80s next, and began the process again. Each time he exploded something, his eyes would brighten as they had before. Explosions made him happy, or at least, happier.
After about seven or eight rounds of explosions, his eyes were as bright as they had ever been. His eyes only had a glimpse of pain within them, and he looked like a happy child should. But that look disappeared as he pushed up the sleeve of his jacket. On his arm were strange little markings, some lighter than his skin, and some darker. No one except him ever noticed, because his parents never cared, and he took great care in never showing his friends. He lit his lighter, and held it to his arm. He bit his tongue as the fire started to make contact with his skin. At first, he felt pain, but then he felt relief. Some people use blades, and cut themselves. But this boy, who already loved fire, burnt himself for relief.
He put his lighter back into his pocket, and slowly brought his sleeve back down. He zipped up his backpack, and began to walk to the place where he lived. His mother and father would not even know that he was gone. But if they did, the only thing that could happen to him was more pain. And he was not scared of that.
So the small boy with the mouthful of braces journeyed home, and as he had expected, his parents did not notice his absence. He didn't bother to change his clothes, but he tucked himself into his bed, turned off the light, and hoped that tomorrow would be a better day.