Redivivus

Disclaimer- I do not own 'Holes', it belongs to Louis Sachar.

Summary – Seventeen year old Squid makes a transition from juvenile delinquent into murderer, and only the sister of the victim can give him the chance of redemption.

Warning! – Mild swearing.

Author's Note – First chapter may seem slightly boring but I just have to introduce the plot. I obviously won't carry on writing this story if nobody likes it, but I'll give it a while to see if anyone does. A constructive criticism is loved. Also please tell me if I have made any mistakes or errors. Thank you!

Chapter One

"Breaking the Shell"

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Five years. It would be five years before he could be free again. The world wouldn't halt for him, it would keep on spinning, leaving him behind, because he didn't deserve to see the beauty of the Earth, he didn't deserve to see the light of day, or the Moon's milky glare at night. He would miss the itching prospect of snow in the Winter and the hope for warmth in the Summer, he would miss it all, the Earth leaving him behind as it grew and nobody would care; they wouldn't care because he, Alan Robert Carrington, killed someone. He took a person's life and now because of it, he would become forgotten by the World, and no one would be left to care. But would it make it better to say he was 'sorry' , he didn't think so, plus what was the point making up some bullshit, he didn't know him, he wished he could say he cared about what he did, but redemption wouldn't show it's ugly face; at least not for him.

He couldn't remember when he had taken this little transition from breaking into people's homes for money and into the killing of another human being, but obviously the time he had spent not long before at Camp Green Lake took to no effect. That's where he got his name; Squid, it was what he went by nowadays, to be someone else felt nice. He could still remember the sweltering days at camp, his hands being worked raw from the flesh which turned to a pinkish pulp, while the blazing sun beat down on their unprotected skin, causing it to tinge red. He could remember lying in his ratty cot at night, whilst everyone else was asleep and simply sitting in self-pity, finally shedding away this hard shell and for those few moments, he thought he could breathe – really breathe. But then the camp was shut down, and he thought he would have been sent to another delinquency camp, to be passed around, basically unwanted, but he had been placed into the care of a personal counselor. Some poor old guy who really did believe people could change, well he couldn't change, he couldn't let go of who he was.

He remembered sitting in court, as the prosecutor rambled on. He could pretend that he had been listening, but as his eyes wandered across the courtroom, and they had settled on a child – that's all she could have been – and she was crying, her big eyes blurred with tears that dribbled down her cheeks and onto the desk in front of her. It was all he could hear, the rest of the noise drowned out by the dripping of her tears on the wood and as she cried, he noticed she didn't wipe them away, or hide them, she let them fall; she wasn't ashamed. But was that what he was supposed to be? Ashamed? Could he really pretend that if he could go back, he would have not done it? He wasn't as cold as the newspapers made him out to be, they had said in fact at that very court session that he had slouched lazily in his chair with a cold look of disrespect for the so-called 'wonder-boy' , he would admit he couldn't really feel for an overdosing football player, but 'cold' ? He just didn't want to cry – he couldn't act like some stupid little kid anymore. Well maybe he was cold, maybe he didn't have respect for the guy he had killed. However, when he had gazed in curiosity at that child – that little girl, he had felt a sting deep in his chest, it may have been brief but for that moment he had felt her pain. But that didn't matter now; he was locked away, for the 'safety of the citizens'.

He would have rather forgotten all of this, but as he sat, upon his rock-hard bunk in his dull grey cell, with but a toilet and a bench to accompany him, his thoughts was the only things to keep him sane, they were the only things to show him that he was once free, that he once actually lived. For when you are locked into a lonely noiseless room, you tend to lose all traces of what once was, and he didn't want to become like the guy in the cell next to him, constantly crying out for his mother, he didn't want to become crazy. But as he did, sit alone, talking to only himself in his head he heard a clatter of keys and shoes hitting against the stone floors as they became closer. Squid's ears perked slightly as the footsteps seemed to pause directly outside of his cell. Sitting up straight from his bed, he heard the click of a key into a lock and the screech as one of the many doors outside of his cell opened. Squid stood from his bed and held his breath as a guard, seen through the slit of the door, motioned him over.

"Hands through the slot, and don't try anything," the guard said in a gruff voice, eyeing Squid in obvious dislike. Squid turned his back to the door and put his hands through the slot of the door behind him that the guard had just opened, and then waited as his hands were cuffed. Feeling the cool metal on his wrists, he withdrew his hands from the slot and turned to face the now open door. "It seems, you have a visitor," the guard explained, as the shackles around Squid's ankles were fastened. He was led down a hall and into a room, separated into two by a long pane of glass, with but a small slot at the base, where the glass met with the table underneath.

The guards stood by the door, in which he had entered through and Squid sat in the chair, facing the pane of glass looking through to the empty other side. He silently wondered who it could be. Surely not his mother, she had said that she didn't ever want to see 'his ugly bastard face again'; he would admit that it had hurt when she said that. The only visitor he had ever gotten was from a fellow ex-delinquent from Camp Green Lake. Stanley Yelnats had sat across him and gushed how strange it was that he had come to see him, but he had thought he would have wanted to 'talk'. Like hell he wanted to talk; the only reason he probably came was out of pity. His story had been plastered across newspapers about his drunk of a mother and his abandoning father. Well he didn't need his pity.

But as the opposite door opened, Squid was faced with a girl. The guards stood by the door, and the girl slowly approached the chair opposite him, parted by glass and sat down. Her eyes were set on the table in front of her, where her small pale hands laid as she seemed to refuse to look him in the eye. Her hair was long, and hung around her face like curtains, and seemed quite greasy and lank. Her skin was pale and on her face he could see what looked like scratches across her gaunt cheeks. She seemed about fifteen perhaps younger, with long thin arms and a stick shape body as if she hadn't eaten in weeks. As he watched her, he suddenly noticed that her eyes were closed and she seemed to be chewing on her bottom lip.

"Did you know David?" her fragile voice echoed across the room. Squid's stomach dropped as he immediately knew who she was talking about.

"No," he answered, trying to keep his voice as calm as hers. His voice wasn't soft, it was hard and gruff. The girl lifted her gaze from the table and looked him in the eye. Her stare was wide and penetrating.

"Do you regret it?" she asked, her voice stronger now, more assertive. Squid looked her straight in the eye, his face blank and expressionless as hers was etched in pain. What was he meant to say? She was only a child, but he wanted to speak in honesty.

"No." He saw her eyes once again fix a gaze upon the table. She looked hurt. She nodded her head gently and closed her eyes.

"You took my brother, I want to forgive, but I don't think you will let me. I need to know you are sorry. I don't want you to be sorry for me, or my mother nor my father, but to be sorry for what you have done, I need to know," she sounded angry, he could see her small hands clutched in fists and her knuckles turning white. "I need to understand," she finished; it sounded like a soft plea.

"I can't," he replied, "It doesn't make a fucking difference," he spat beginning to get angry with her sitting there just wallowing in self-pity "It won't change anything, 'cause it can't change, nothin' can," he finished. She kept silent. "Why did you come here?" he asked, but it sounded more like an accusation rather than a question. Her eyes met with his once more and she spoke softly.

"I can't go anywhere else, I need this, I need to find something," there was long pause before she continued, staring at him blankly "I need to understand."

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Author's Note – Okay, so tell me, is it even worth writing another chapter, or should I stop? Please Review.