Prequel
Blair's Point of View


I'm sick of it.

Fucking sick of everything. Of him.

There's not a thing I did to deserve this, no matter how many times he relentlessly insists that there is. Mom died in a car crash. I was there, quiet and in the passenger seat. She and I were never very close, but we still had some sort of relationship-she was my mother after all. I still loved her. Never in a billion years would I have ever done anything to harm her, to make it so she is no longer a part of this earth. How could he? How could he be so ignorant and spiteful that he'd constantly blame his own daughter for the death of her mom?

It was the guy behind the truck's fault, for being drunk out of his mind as he decided to drive like a psychopath in the middle of the night. Or maybe it was fate's fault for choosing this unspeakably horrific tragedy to happen to a perfectly benevolent human being like Mom. It could be anyone's fault. Why did he have it stuck in his head that it's mine?

"She'd never be behind that goddamn wheel that night if it weren't for you," he hisses, jabbing his beer bottle towards me, some of the alcoholic acid dripping from the edge due to his abrupt movement. "She would have been at home, safe. Breathing. Your brother and I wouldn't have had to see her pale and lifeless corpse lying in a morgue!"

I just sit and listen, my fists clenching under the kitchen table, my leg bouncing up and down while I try and keep myself calm. He's been screaming and shouting the same speech almost every night, every day, for six months. Glaring at me with such unsuppressed resentment that it feels like his eyes are daggers stabbing me straight through my heart. But there's only so much a person can take. There's only so much I can take.

So that's why I finally say something. I never respond to his ruthless behavior towards me, especially since I know it won't solve anything. Right now that's going to change. I refuse to let this asshole treat me like dirt for another moment longer.

"You know what," I sneer, getting up from my seat and standing directly in front of his ugly face. "I'm so tired of hearing you verbally abuse me every damn day. I'm your daughter, your daughter. You're supposed to be there for me, comforting me for having to witness the death of my own mom!" Feeling the tears constricting in my throat, I forcefully swallow them down. I won't cry in front of him. "Hell, you've never been the most fantastic person, but who knew you could be such a heartless bastard?"

When he hits me, I don't really feel it. Not at first. The shock is enough to distract me from the pain. But it's the anger that really causes any ting of agony to shrivel into nothingness. Vibrating through my body, red-hot and crawling down my spine, under my skin, is an astronomical rush of rage that I've never experienced before in my lifetime. I can't imagine an emotion this intense, this uncontrollable, could actually exist.

The man's facial expression changes, his once enraged, piercing eyes are now drowning in bewilderment. But it's soon that my ability to study his appearance vanishes, and my vision turns hazy, my surroundings becoming blurred. My entire form is shaking, trembling turbulently in my own skin; short and shallow breathes of air violently scrape past my throat. I should be scared. I should be horrified of what's happening to me. But I'm not. The only thing I can feel is the utterly carnivorous and ferocious indignation churning inside of me, like a pool of dangerous chemicals ready to explode.

And that man, that horrendous, devilish man, is the target.

A blood-curdling sound thunders in the room, bouncing off the walls, seemingly shaking anything around or in its path. What was that sound? Did someone scream? No, that wasn't anything human—it was a growl. An animalistic roar.

It takes me only a moment to realize that it came from me.

The blurry figure in front of me starts to quickly stagger back, in scared and hurried movements. For the life of me, I can't remember who it is—what it is. And I don't care either. All I know is that I have the urge to rip its throat out, leave it lying there to die in a puddle of crimson. I can sense its fear. I can smell it radiating off of it, pumping rapidly through its veins. The blood-lust boiling in the pit of my stomach heightens. Another roar blares.

Suddenly, there's a second heartbeat in the room, almost as frantic as the one belonging to the horrified thing backed up against the wall, trying to get as far away from me as possible. I whirl around to find a bleary silhouette, matching the calmer heartbeat. It's much smaller than the other. It's moving. Yelling, maybe. I can smell its fear, too. But there's something about this specific creature. It's not the target of my rage. No, not at all. Somewhere deep down, swirling inside of me, is a spark of an entirely different emotion. Nothing close to anger—and it's directed toward the small one.

It advances toward me. I snarl, warning to back away, to not come any closer. It doesn't understand, because it continues further without any hesitation. Another surge of anger shoots throughout my body, to the point where my mind completely shuts off.

That minuscule spark is swallowed whole by the unstoppable, murderous animosity.

The last thing I remember is lunging at the small, blurry figure.


Hot. Everything is so hot. It feels like my entire body—my limbs, my back, my head—are on fire. God, it hurts. Not only is it worse than any pain I've experienced before, but it's a very different kind of pain, one I can't begin to understand how it came to be. With how extremely sore every part of me is, it's like I'm a rag that's been rung out way too many times. Hell, I thought stubbing my toe was agonizing. That's like having an orgasm compared to what I'm enduring right now.

My eyes, after a long stream of forceful moments, tear open. Immediately, they're burning along with the rest of my body, but typically for a different explanation—the sun beating down on me. Groaning, I sit up, lifting my stiff arms to rub my hand across my face, feeling like I just woke up from a very long and fitful slumber. Once I'm at least a little more aware and awake, I study my surroundings.

I'm in a forest, positioned on the cold, wet ground. Trees loom around me; sunshine peaks through the gaps, but despite the brightness of the area, darkness seems to engulf everything—in invisible, eerie darkness that causes goosebumbs to arise on my naked arms. Everything is so still, so silent, as if I'm the only thing alive in an inanimate painting. Trembling slightly, and not only from the cold, I peer down at myself. My clothes are shredded, leaving me barely covered and looking as if I had been run over by a bus.

What happened? Why am I here and not at him, getting ready for school with Nate? Why can't I remember anything?

And then I turn my head to the left, and it feels like my entire body, my entire being, crumbles into a million broken pieces.

Nate, my perfectly innocent little brother, is lying on the ground, his throat torn open and dry blood covering almost every inch of him.

Dead.

"NO!" My voice doesn't sound like me. The shriek that erupts from my throat couldn't belong to me; it's too disturbed. Too heartbroken. "No, no, please, Nate." I crawl over to him, hot grief streaming down my cheeks as my quivering hands hover over his pale, inert body. "Nate, wake up! Please." But he doesn't budge; his eyes don't open, and with excruciating pain ripping through my heart, I realize that they never will again.

Staring at him through my foggy, tear-filled eyes, my mind wanders in places that they've never been before, trying, forcing, myself to remember what happened. Who had done this to him? What monster hurt my baby brother?!

Suddenly, like a wire connecting with its match, it all comes rushing back to me. Last night—the fight with my dad, my outburst at him, his hand slapping across my face, and those indescribable sensations of rage...

At that moment, I had forgotten who I was. I had transformed into something that wasn't me—it couldn't have been. Rage as barbaric and vicious as it was could never be a part of me. Usually, I liked to think I was a good person, kindhearted most of the time. Sometimes I was a bitch, but wasn't every teenage girl? No, I wouldn't let an emotion as horrible as uncontrollable anger control me. That isn't who I am.

But I did. Oh god. I did.

The anger did overpower me, and it was as if I was an animal. An blood-thirsty animal that finally found its pray—which happened to be my dad. Every single thing was a target in my eyes. Everything was in my way of murdering the sadistic man who has put my through constant abuse for the past six months. I wasn't even able to recognize him as my father; he was merely a blurred figure.

…. So was Nate.

Nate had gotten in my way. He had attempted to interfere. He tried to save his father. Save me from killing my father.

That monster, that disgusting, murderous monster, is me.

I wish the memories would cut off then, because I already understand. But they don't. Quite the contrary, they seem to enlarge, quicken—the blood, his blood, my hands, which had inexplicably formed claws, were drenched in it—they flash before my eyes, compelling me to watch what I had done. The terrible, unforgivable thing I swore to myself I would never let myself do.

I killed someone.

And not only that, I killed my brother.

That's when I really break down.

My body convulses with heart wrenching wails as I slowly lean my head forehead near his chest,, my arms bundled up in a ball against my own. Frantic with despair, I torture myself by listening for his heart. Nothing. Complete and lifeless silence.

My head whirls. His face blazes in many different images in my mind, brightly appearing before crumbling into nothingness. A painful numbing vibrates throughout all my limbs and down my back until all I'm able to feel is the agony. Swollen with shattering dejection, I shake my head back and forth, not wanting to believe that it's actually true. Wanting to go back and time and stop myself from talking back to my father. Wanting it to be anyone else lying here dead—not him. Not Nate.

But mostly, wanting more than anything to take out all my fury and despair on myself. Because I did this. I'm a monster, and I murdered my own baby brother.

Soon, the hyperventilating comes to an abrupt end. I fall into a bodily quietness—no more sobbing, no more pleading or yelling. The only thing still flowing freely are the tears cascading down my face.

From there on I bury him. Using my already dirty hands to dig up as much dirt and grass as possible, creating a hole just big enough for him to fit, I take him into my trembling arms before gently settling him down. I tear off some of my pants and shirt to clean basically all of the blood off of him, and then I use leaves and flowers to cover up his wound, tucking them into his arms after I cross them. Then, gazing down at him, I brush his light ginger hair out his face, my fingertips linger against his skin.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper, my voice crackling, despondence laced through every syllable. I can taste the saltiness of my tears as they drip onto my lips. "I know that's enough, but I just hope you know that I didn't want this, Nate. Something took over me, something completely evil. Not me. I love you, baby brother. I'd never hurt you."

But you did, a voice that sounds uncannily like Nate's echoes in the back of my head. You're the monster. You killed me.

I hastily stumble away from his body, hurrying to my feet. The voice continues to repeat in my head, driving an emotional pain so intense through me that I let out an ear-piercing scream.

You're the monster.

You killed me.

Killed.

Monster.

My feet start moving before I realize they are. I sprint through the forest, dashing past the trees and plants like it's an obstacle course I've been practicing for years. I don't look back once. I can't. For God's sake, I can't see his dead body ever again.

I understand where I'm headed once a couple hours go by, and I stop short at the end of the forest line that's now bordering a road. Breathing hard, but nevertheless not being as out of breath as I technically should be, my eyes scan over the huge, bolded words on the city entrance sign.

Welcome to Beacon Hills


Hope you liked it! I know none of the actual show characters have made an appearance yet, but from next chapter and on they for sure will! It may be a little confusing, so hopefully you'll understand throughout the next few chapters. Please review if I should continue! Thank you!