Prologue

"Call me Nathan," he had written back in fifths grade, when they had been asked to write an "interesting and fun" paper about their life. Back in Florida, when everything had been a lot easier. This one sentence had probably been the only interesting thing about his essay. Not that his life had been something interesting or something fun. It had never been. But starting it with a quote of one of the best stories ever written was always a good idea, wasn't it?

Nathan Joshua Prescott, as it was officially written on his birth certificate. For his dad, he was Nathan; for Vic, he was Nate (and sometimes Josh, just to piss him off). He was born on 29 August 1994, in Fort Lauderale, Florida – never expecting to move one day. Back then, him, his sister, his mother and his father had been something one could call a "family", even though every family had its flaws (and the Prescotts sure did have a lot of flaws). Back when his family hadn't been ripped apart. Back when Nathan hadn't known, hadn't understood the weight on his shoulders, Harry Aaron Prescott's legacy. Oh, how little young Nathan had known that he would be cursing this man one day.

But apart from difficult papers to write and Kris always stealing his favorite books … for him, the summers in Florida had been the warmest and the beaches had been the whitest. Nathan's parents had been rich ever since he could remember, and he had always been the famous and popular kid in school, because he had always had such cool stuff

Kris and him had been close from the beginning. She had been the person comforting him when he had been crying in her arms because their parents had rejected the painting he had drawn for them. One day, Nathan had put one of his artworks on the fridge in one of the kitchens because he had seen some kid's dad doing that on television, and never had he gotten such a fast reaction to one of his actions – within two minutes, his dad had taken it off, telling Nathan he didn't want the adhesive tape to leave any marks on the fridge. It had been one of Nathan's nannies keeping it and telling Nathan it was well done (of course it had been great, there had been his mom and his dad, standing on a huge whale).

It was 2013, Nathan was 19 years old and the days of him sitting in fifths grade, contemplating about his recent "fun" life and painting whales were over. In fact, Nathan hadn't been thinking at all for some time. The last thing he had heard from Kris had been her telling him how her flight had been and how Brazil was – two months ago. The fact that he hadn't been feeling anything at all lately wasn't exactly new, and this pain in his head wasn't, too, but still, Nathan somehow managed to wake up every singe morning, wondering when he would start to feel better, when this one day would come when everything changed, when these nightmares would disappear. He woke up as an empty shell of his self and he fell asleep as one, just before being haunted by these nightmares, which didn't want to end. It had been six months, and it hadn't gotten any better.

Nathan, laying on the bed, trying to force himself to get up, had probably been the main reason for his recent absence in, like, every class. Well, not like anybody seemed to care about that, apart from this one stupid teacher called Ms. Hoida, who had dismissed Nathan from her class back in September, just because he had submitted a shitty write up for his paper project. He should have known that Hayden would suck at this, and Nathan had chosen to ignore the fact that Hayden didn't even know one single novel written by Hemingway, so nobody could blame him. Still, this fucker had somehow managed to dismiss Nathan with that crap, making the school send a letter to Sean. But stupid Ms. Hoida, thinking there was anybody caring about Nathan and how he did at Blackwell. Almost endearing. If there was one thing Sean was better at than not giving a fuck about his son, then it was showing Blackwell to which extent he didn't.

"Whatever this fucker did this time, get off Nathan's ass or I'm gonna sue y'all," was how one could resume Sean's general reactions. Nathan's birthday present had been 1.000 $ and a belated SMS, claiming that Sean hadn't really known what to get him, so Nathan could spend the money on whatever he wanted to. Caring? Not really. But who gave a fuck anyway, Nathan had learned to live with that (at least he had thought so) and this was basically the story of how Nathan could do literally anything without having to fear any consequences. What a life.

As far as he remembered, Kris had gotten him a great shot of a whale jumping out of the water, which was resting in his wallet next to Ahab. When he had been 10, his mother had begun to stay away for weeks, without any of the kids knowing why. With the Prescotts moving to Oregon, his life had started to become shit. It had all started with Sean dismissing his nannies, who had always been some kind of substitute for Nathan's mother, who basically hadn't been there at all. Then, after they had moved, Sean had forced Kris go to boarding school, making Nathan lonelier than he had been before. Without Kris, there had been no one for Nathan. His mother had started to stay away for months, and still, Nathan hadn't had any idea about her whereabouts, and Sean had started to get even busier. Nathan remembered the day he had started to set a date for talking to him. First it had been during the work, then it had been the whole week.

Nathan once had a cat called Ahab, a black, fuzzy, grumpy tomcat. When he had been 16, he had gotten his heart broken for the first time. He had come home one day, finding out that Sean had given Ahab away because he hadn't stopped scratching the pillows. So, Nathan had decided not to talk to him for a month, which had been a pretty pathetic attempt of gaining his attention, since Sean hadn't tried once to make Nathan talk to him again.

It had been in the very same year when Nathan had found out why his mother had always stayed away for this long. Of course Nathan hadn't believed Sean telling him that she had been on vacation, but he hadn't thought that she was sick, too. "Psychotic schizophrenia" Sean had said when Nathan had screamed at him, ordering him to about his mom. Back then, Nathan couldn't have told what had been worse: knowing that his mom had schizophrenia or getting told that Kris had known it all the time. This was followed by Nathan proceeding his month's silence and with Sean not giving a shit, again.

Nathan had never really known her cause of death. It were almost two years now. Nathan had always thought that she might had killed herself or something, but what did he know? He barely knew her. Nathan used to confront Sean about that, but Sean always wanted Nathan to keep his mouth shut. And now, he wanted Blackwell to keep their mouth shut.

About a year and a half ago, Nathan had begun to not give a fuck at all. He had even played a little game, trying to find out when Sean would give him attention, trying to test Principal Wells' limits. Once he had been really drunk, and he had tried to steal the Tobanga, since it radiated a mysterious energy as he thought, and sometimes, he couldn't sleep because he felt like it was watching him, judging him. Of course that idea had turned out to be so fucking stupid Nathan had almost broken his hand, trying to get that huge piece of wood off the ground. It had all ended up with that creep Samuel catching him doing so, and after lighting firecrackers in the boy's and girl's bathroom (which had been absolutely hilarious and unjustly condemned), Blackwell's next letter had landed on the mat (which Sean had chosen to ignore again).

Nobody messed with Nathan. Nobody.

Well, Nathan surely knew he was a piece of shit, and he probably deserved all of these punishments, but he wasn't dumb. They told Sean they wanted Nathan to get medical help, they wanted to get rid of him. Of course they did, Nathan couldn't blame them for that, but if there was something Nathan wasn't, then it was sick, fucking schizophrenic like his mother. He already got pills and shit, and if he wouldn't skip it, he would go to Dr. Bill, letting him analyze him and pay that dumbass, who knew nothing about Nathan. Nobody knew shit about him. Except for one man.

"Rott" was what a fucked up drug dealer had decided to call him. Not that much of a bad name, but still – who the fuck named his clients after fucking dogs. Frank had been more fun to be around when he had been betting on dog fights. Now, after his inspiration or whatthefuckever, he had become such a moralizer. At least he was still pumping drugs, so Nathan could proceed with his side job – selling the drugs again, cut down with laxatives. Nathan didn't really know why exactly he was doing that, since he could buy all the fucking dope Frank got, but maybe he was bored. Since his mother's death, Nathan had literally felt nothing at all. He was bored and lethargic, feeling like a stupid sloth sometimes, and apart from photographing he hadn't any hobbies.

Thinking about Frank Bowers, Nathan didn't really get around thinking of Rachel Amber. Rachel fucking Amber, the reason for Nathan's never-ending nightmares. It hadn't been that much of a long time, about six months. Still, if felt like it was yesterday. She had been queen of Blackwell; everybody had treated her with respect, even Vic. She had used to chill with these skater potheads. Nathan had neither crushed on her nor had he cared about her, but maybe that had been the reason she had become his own kind of project. The project he had failed. Since that one night when Nathan had fucked up horribly, he had begun to get nightmares including Rachel Amber and her dead face, looking at him with an empty stare, saliva running down her cheek, and skin pale as death. Nathan thought – no, Nathan knew that this had to be the very night he had started to lose his mind.

There were many proofs of Nathan going insane, but apart from him taking pills like a fucking junkie ever since that day and sometimes hearing her voice, not being sure if it was the wind or the heating or whatever, there was the fact that Nathan couldn't stop photographing girls. Was he already insane oder just passionate? He didn't know. The only thing he knew was, that there were these mysterious first seconds of the girl waking up and realizing that she neither did know where she was nor what was happening right now. The very fucking seconds this punk bitch Chloe Price hadn't given him when she had woken up in Nathan's room, drugged and squatting in a corner. Was she a good model? No. Was it one of Nathan's best works? Definitely not. Did he fucking care?

It had all started with a normal party and Nathan (wasted, once again), flashing his money everywhere, and this bitch couldn't stop talking about Rachel Amber and how she was going to find her. He hadn't managed to make her shut up, so he had drugged her and taken her to his room, when she had suddenly woken up and broken his lamp as she had got up. Apart from being the shittiest and shortest session ever and Mark reaming Nathan's ass because of that mistake, he had witnessed her stealing his fucking money, too. How could someone like Rachel hang out with such a brat like Chloe Price?

She was lucky he hadn't had his gun, because if so, she would've been dead by now, and her and Rachel would live happily ever after in fucking heaven. Back when Nathan had gotten his gun, Mark had yelled at him for being so stupid. "In this state of yours, anything can happen," he had claimed. – "In what fucking state?" Nathan had replied, even though he had known what he had meant. He wasn't stable, he knew that. But that was why he was taking these shitty pills, right? "I won't be able to save your ass once you actually shoot somebody, and I don't have time to help you burying another corpse, Nathan." That hurt, but so did some of Mark's words.

Mark Jefferson, world-famous photographer and his very own mentor. Nathan owned him big time. It was Mark, who had helped him bury Rachel's corpse at midnight, who had been with him when Nathan had driven to the junkyard and had let Rachel's corpse disappear. The junkyard, Mark's idea – a place too obvious for the people, especially Chloe, to search for Rachel. It had been pouring and Nathan had caught a cold, and it had been the most terrible thing he had ever done in his life apart from killing Rachel Amber. Mark Jefferson, the only person who understood Nathan's dark taste of art and photography, understood his passion for monochrome films and darkest thoughts. He let him be part of his visions and he saw a lot of potential in Nathan. The man who had changed Nathan's life, his idol he could look up to. Never had he met someone as mysterious and dangerous as Mark Jefferson, but then again … it was the easiest thing in the world for a man to look as if he had a great secret in him, as Ishmael would say. And Mark sure had a lot of secrets hidden in his Dark Room.

He was a genius, he was the man Nathan always wanted to be. Powerful, talented, passionate, charming … sexy. And he would defend him, no matter what.