What is blood?
Blood is life. Blood is what seeps from a cut. Blood is what pumps through our hearts, our bodies, our veins and arteries. Without blood, nothing lives.
Without blood, everything dies.
It always fascinated me how one simple thing controlled our lives. Parents get scared when they see their child bleeding. Some people are afraid of blood; some people are disgusted by it.
I was fascinated with it.
Why shouldn't I have been fascinated with it? It was life. Life was fascinating.
But even more fascinating than life was death.
It was fascinating because no one knew exactly what happened when someone died. Their heart stopped, their breathing stopped, they got cold. Their blood stilled.
I learned about death when I was very young. It had become almost as familiar as a friend. A friend that stabbed you in the back. A friend that laughed at you when they thought you weren't listening. A friend that wasn't really a friend at all.
My grandparents died before I was born. On my mother's side, my grandfather was killed in a war. My grandmother gave birth to my mother, but died from grief soon afterward. On my father's side, my grandmother got the flu and, with her poor immune system, died within a month. My grandfather suffered from a stroke.
My brother died before I was even alive enough to understand that he was there. It was an odd scene; me, as a new infant, crying as I was brought into this world, and my mother crying as well, holding another baby that wasn't crying.
My aunt died when I was two. My parents told me that her car got hit with another car. The truth is she was drunk and was coming home after cheating on my uncle. He found out and crashed into her on the freeway.
He died when I was three, after being in a coma for a year.
My other aunt died when I was five. She had never been married, never been asked out, and never been kissed. She broke into her high school crush's house and hung herself in his closet.
My dog died when I was eight. He got loose late at night when I let him out before I went to bed. I chased him from the backyard to the front when he caught sight of a squirrel. I wasn't fast enough, and was forced to watch as he got hit with our neighbor's car.
Yes, death was a close friend to me. I'd thought I understood death. I'd thought I couldn't learn any more about death. It had taken so much from me already, taught me so much. How could I ever be surprised again?
Oh, how wrong I was.
My mother, Diane, was locked in her room, packing a suitcase. I sat on the edge of the bed, saying nothing, simply watching her. Tears ran down her face in streams, and the sounds of her sobs nearly broke my heart.
I'd known for years that this day would come. The day when she finally left my father. I just didn't realize how truly frightened of him she was.
I'd seen him do many things to her. And all of which she didn't deserve. I'd seen him yell at her, order her around, embarrass her in front of his football friends. I'd seen him threaten her, slam the door in her face, break her favorite things. And I'd seen him hit her. Countless times.
I also didn't realize how truly naive my mother was. Night after night, when she thought I'd already gone to bed, I'd hear her crying softly, cleaning up the kitchen, and muttering to herself about how "it was just this one time" or how "he's never gonna do it again".
What lies those were.
My mother finished packing and pulled the zipper of her suitcase. She'd overestimated how much it could hold, and was having trouble closing it.
I stood up and took the zipper from her. "Let me get it," I said softly, zipping it for her.
"Thank you, Logan," she said quickly, quietly, "thank you." She grabbed the handle, but I pushed her hand away and grabbed it myself, heaving it up.
"It's too heavy for you," I protested gently. "I'll get it."
"Thank you, thank you," she said, trying to smile, but failing miserably. "Now let's get out of here; hurry!" She ran to the door and opened it roughly. Then she let out a short scream.
My father, Jackson, was standing in the doorway. In his right hand he held a black pistol. In his left, a crinkled note. The note my mother left on the table for him to find after he went to work.
"Jackson!" my mother gasped, stepping as far away from him as she could. "What are doing here? I thought you had work today?"
My father met her fearful gaze with a furious glare. "Forgot my wallet," he said simply, between clenched teeth. He stepped inside the room, closing the door gently behind him. He took in the scene with what seemed to be uninterest, but I could see past it. His eyes found the suitcase, then returned to my mother. It appeared he still hadn't noticed me. "You ain't plannin' on leavin' me, are ya, Diane?" he asked.
"Jackson, I -"
"Are ya?" he asked again, cutting her off.
My mother hesitated, wringing her hands nervously. "Of course not, Jackson," she finally answered, her voice nothing but a whisper.
"Bull shit!" My father backhanded her hard across the face, and she stumbled into her vanity. Her perfume bottle that she'd forgotten to pack fell to the ground and broke.
I took a step forward, lifting my hand to help her, but thought better of it. She'd handled this before; she was fine.
"How long've ya been plannin' this?" he yelled, stomping up close to her. His gaze flickered to me, then he did a double take. He looked at me, then the suitcase. "You helpin' her, Logan?"
"Yeah," I snapped back. "I am." My fingers tightened on the strap of the suitcase, ready to hit him with it if he came at me.
"You best watch yerself, boy," he growled, taking a step toward me.
My mother stood up and put a hand on his arm. "It was my idea, Jackson," she pleaded. "Don't hurt him, please!"
"Shut up!" My father elbowed her away. "I'll do what I want, bitch!" He turned to her and punched her in the nose.
She yelped and fell back onto the bed, her hand fleeting to her nose and mouth.
But he wasn't done. He grabbed her shoulders and threw her into her vanity mirror, making it shatter and making her scream.
"Dad, let go of her"! I yelled, letting go of the suitcase and running at him. I grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, but he punched my cheek, and I stumbled to the side, tripping over my feet.
He turned back to my sobbing mother and cocked his gun. "You ain't leavin' me, bitch!" he roared. "After all I done fer you, you ain't leavin' me!"
"Jackson, no!" she screamed, her hands coming up in front of her face to protect herself.
"Mom!" I cried, pushing myself to my feet.
The whole room shook with the sound of the shot. I put my hand on the wall to stable myself while my other hand flew instinctively to my ear. My eyes closed so tight it was painful. My mother's scream was cut short by the sound and, in the absense of such a loud noise, the thud her body made when it hit the ground seemed even louder.
My breath came in and out in ragged gasps as I opened my eyes. I avoided looking at her, but couldn't stop myself.
She lay on the ground, arms sprawled around her head, her neck bent at an awkward angle. Her eyes were wide, her face still wet with tears, and her hair was being stained from blonde to red with the blood flowing out of the hole in her temple.
My mouth hung open, and I turned and threw up right there. I coughed and gagged, then stood up and wiped my mouth, glaring at my father in disgust and disbelief. "You killed her," I breathed, my voice strained.
My father let out a chuckle as he looked down at her. "Yea, guess I did," he replied, a slight smirk on his lips.
My brow furrowed. "How can you laugh?" I asked, walking towards him, trying not to wobble. "You just killed you wife! My mother! Don't you even care?"
He laughed, throwing his head back. "Listen, son -" he started.
"Fuck you!" I roared, punching him in the face. I grabbed his wrist tight and wrenched the gun from his grip.
"What are you doing with that -" he started to ask, putting his hand up as if to deter me.
I said nothing as I shot him in the mouth, then the chest. His knees crumpled underneath him and his head hit the bed, before his weight dragged the rest of his body to the ground. I stomped my foot on his lungs and emptied the rest of the bullets into his skull.
On that day, both my parents were killed. The police came, but by that time I was already gone, and covering my tracks. I knew they'd think I killed both of them if I stayed there.
I made my way to the city, the gun still in my hand and only twenty bucks in my pocket. And I went straight for the bar.
I sat down and slammed my fist down on the table for the bartender's attention. "Scotch," I growled, keeping my head turned down and my eyes on the table.
"I'm gonna need to see some ID," he said, cleaning a glass with a dirty looking rag.
I sighed through my nose and lifted the gun onto the table. I cocked it and pointed it at his head. I lifted my eyes to meet his. "Scotch," I repeated.
"Whatever, man," he said, holding his hands up and backing up behind the counter. He ducked down and came up with a glass bottle full of dark liquid. He pulled out a short glass and poured the drink in. He sat the glass in front of me, then took a step back.
I kept my finger on the trigger and took a long drink with my left hand.
"You got a name?" the man asked tentatively.
I stepped mid-gulp and looked at him again. I swallowed the rest and wiped my mouth. "Yeah," I answered. What's the most common name...? Alex? "It's Axel." Aw, fuck. Pronounced it wrong.
"That's an unusual name, huh?"
I shrugged and finished off the rest of my scotch. "That's what makes it mine," I said and fished out the twenty. "Thanks." I nodded to him, then started to walk out of the bar.
I heard him sigh in relief and pick up the twenty from the counter. At the last second, I turned around and shot him in the head.
On that day, both my parents were killed. An innocent man's life was ended early. On that day, I had my first drink. On that day, I became Axel, the Flurry of Dancing Flames.
On that day, I became a murderer.