I am the Night Prowler

Chapter One

Fletcher was in the car, his forehead resting against the cool window, earbuds in, listening to his music to help calm his nerves. He was on his way to go get his uncle from prison. He'd been in there for the last decade, waiting to get out, ever since he had been imprisoned for killing a man behind a bar. The courts had said he was a murderer. But Fletcher didn't believe a word of it. From his scant memories of him, and his father's stories, his uncle had always seemed like an honorable fellow, maybe a little too eager to be noticed, but certainly not a psycho.
With only a few minutes left in the drive, Fletcher takes out his earbuds, because they are no longer calming his seemingly raging nerves. He sits up, his neck a bit stiff from being in the same position for so long. His parents park the car in front of the prison, and with a terse "Stay here," from his father as he tries get out of his seat, he slumps back, bored of being in the little environment of tan leather.

They come back with a man he barely even realizes. His Uncle has grown a beard, and his face is ruddy and dirty. He opens the door, and with not a small amount of gravel in his voice, greets Fletcher with a "Hey, Fletch! You've grown. Fletcher scoots over a bit, because his uncle isn't a small guy. His father climbs into the front seat and says, "Hey, Ray, don't squish my son! He's the one who does the dishes." Uncle Ray laughs, then stops as he realizes it wasn't just a joke. But he smiles again as he turns towards Fletcher, and they begin to catch up eagerly.

…

Everyone, even Fletcher's father, is cracking up by the time they get home. Uncle Ray had always been a good teller of stories, especially funny ones. They seemed to start out real, then get funnier and more far-fetched the farther they got into the drive, until he was telling a knee-slapper about a big lump of a cell-mate who every day at breakfast would sing the national anthem backwards, which somehow devolved into a tale about a guard who couldn't figure out how to pull the alarm. Fletcher's sides hurt and his cheeks has small rivers of tears running down them when they walked through the front door. Everyone's laughter petered out, and Fletcher's mom said, "I'll go fix us some dinner. Raymond, do you want a beer?" He answered with a smile, "Sure. A decade in the slammer, might as well celebrate!" She smiled, and came back a few minutes later with an opened IPA. He took it with a thanks, and sat down in a cushy armchair. Fletcher took a seat across from him with a small sigh of relief.

Uncle Ray laughed again, a booming noise that made you just want to grin at the world. "Not to be nitpicky, but those car seats are uncomfortable, huh?"

Fletcher answers with a broad grin and says, "Yeah, they really are. I keep telling Father to get them replaced, but he always never seems to have the time.

Uncle Ray smiles and nods in an 'I get it' kind of way.

"So, Fletch, any girls at school that you're interested in?" Uncles Ray asks, his smile turning more sly and foxlike. Fletcher could totally imagine him as a shark, swimming where he wished, getting whatever information he wanted.

"Well, there actually is this one girl who I really do like…almost feels as if I love her at times…." Fletcher says, borderline stuttering and his cheeks reddening. "Her name is Rachel. I've liked her for a few years, and dated a few other girls, but she's….I don't know….I don't really want to sound poetic, but she's like that one song you always play, the one piece of comfort when the world wants to beat you down." He laughs nervously.

Uncle Ray pretends to wipe away a tear from his eye. "That was beautiful, nephew. I wish you the best with her." A contented silence falls, and they both sit back for a few minutes. Fletcher counts to ten and waits for his cheeks to cool. He'd never admitted his liking for her, not even to Megan or Chester, his two best friends. Megan was good friends with Rachel, and they'd hung out a bunch of times. Megan was somewhere in the middle of the social order, and was an A-student, except in English. She hated English with a passion, and was never caught for putting glue on the English teacher's chair. Chester…well, Chester was a recluse. He and Fletcher had been friends ever since they were little. He was a mathematical and scientific genius, and sung a lot at the football games at his high school. He was good-looking, and easily could have been popular if he wanted, but he didn't. The girls still cooed over him, however, and it used to drive Fletcher nuts.

They sat for a while, Uncle Ray sipping his beer and Fletcher tapping out various tunes on his chair's armrest. Fletcher just sat, tried to relive the scant memories he had of the man sitting across from him, and really just thinking about everything and nothing all at once.

"How did it feel?" Fletcher blurts out. He immediately widens his eyes and claps his hand over his mouth.

"Sorry, what?" he says, eyes narrowed.

"Never mind. Sorry, I spoke without thinking. I should get some of that homework done." Fletcher stands up, his throat tight. He starts towards the stairs, his ears feeling as if they're in a magnesium-fueled inferno. And he knew how hot that was, since he and Chester had the police called on them once for lighting a magnesium fire at the end of Chester's col-de-sac.

"Fletcher, stop. " Uncle Ray sounded calm, collected, and scary as all hell. "Come here." Fletcher turns around, and walks toward his uncle, who has a strange look on his face. Fletcher stops a few feet from his uncle. His hands are shaking, he feels suddenly cold, and he knows his face must be pale. "That wasn't a very appropriate question to ask," he says. Fletcher can barely hear himself when he whispers, "Sorry,"

"But since I'm not normal, and since I heard a lot worse in prison, I really don't care." He grins, and Fletcher's new nickname for his uncle is now undeniably Shark. "Come on, let's take a walk." He turns around, and he puts his arm across Fletcher's shoulders.

And they walk out into the night.

Chapter 2

"Why do you want to know how it felt?" Uncle ray asks Fletcher. "That's fairly morbid, even for a moody teenager such as yourself."

Fletcher, who for the last three minutes, has been ashamed and guilt-ridden,

suddenly feels hot anger bubbling in his gut. He doesn't know why, only that this guy

who barely feels like he knows is insulting him, and some primordial part of him just

won't take it.

"But I suppose that I should tell you something first, nephew." Something

about his tone has changed, so he sounds thoughtful, contemplatively warm. Fletcher counts to three and calms down.

(For later): Fletcher sat on his bed crying. His eyes felt warm, and his palms were

soaked. He'd killed six people. How? Why? What for? There wasn't a hope in hell

that this would get him together with Rachel.

"Tough day, huh?" A voice sounded from his chair.

Fletcher leaped up and stopped crying. No one could possibly be in his room except him. He was alone. No one had opened the door, and he hadn't seen anyone sitting in the chair when he'd walked in. But sure enough, there was a small tuft of dark brown, almost black hair just visible above the top of the high-backed roller chair.

"Come on now. Don't stop now. Just because I'm here doesn't mean you should stop the water show! It hasn't stopped you before, after all."

Now Fletcher was scared out of his mind. He reached into his pocket and silently opened his knife. All those thoughts of those he'd killed suddenly seemed unimportant. This dude was in his room. And he needed to remove this possible danger as quickly as possible.

Cold laughter came from behind the chair. "Like that'll stop someone who only exists in your head."

Fletcher got the courage to talk. He made his voice seem deeper, more guttural, more manly. Fear factor, all that stuff. "Stand up, put your hands above your head, and turn around slowly, d-bag."

The laughter now turned into a chuckle. "Aww, how cute. Dude, I'm here to help you, not hurt you. If I wanted to hurt you, you'd have been in an asylum last week. "

Fletcher furrowed his brow, confused. He switched the knife to an underhand grip, to stab downward if need be. He reached out, and spun around the chair. A boy was sitting there, in complete dark grey, with a thin leather jacket. His hair was over his eyes, but the smile on his lips was clear and dangerous as a diamond blade.

"Well there you go. Now you see me." He stood up, eyes still covered by his dark hair. Fletcher took a half step back, mind in overdrive, noting the boy's confident stance, how they had the same height, similar hair color, his muscles, and the artful skull design on the boys shirt. Then the boy tilted his head back, revealing the rest of his face.

Fletcher leaped backward onto his bed, and scrambled for the wall.

The boy could have been his twin. He looked the same, besides having slightly darker and thicker hair. His canines were slightly longer, and his eyes…the irises… Fletcher was captivated. They were scarlet red. Not glowing, not even really, truly menacing, but rather beautiful. Deep, understanding, controlling. Eyes you look into for an eternity and never quite understand the person looking out of them. Fletcher wasn't gay, but this guy had a way about him that had him questioning. He was Fletcher, but better. Darker and more beautiful. Everything he could never be. He instantly understood that this boy was an alpha male, would be a popular kid, but not stupid and blind either.

"Who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my bedroom?" Fletcher spat out, after his tongue had untwisted.

The boy laughed again, a cold, somehow pleasant sound that made Fletcher wanted to smile. It was somehow invigorating and relaxing at the same time. "I'm you, Fletcher. Call me your literal brainchild. A small piece of you gone rogue." He smirked. "And what am I doing here? Well, I go where you go, my friend. All day, every day."

Now Fletcher was interested. For some reason, it felt…normal. Natural. Like he'd known him for a while. For a long time, actually.

"You're…me? How is that possible? What do I call you?" He asked, mind fuzzy and sharp simultaneously.

"Slow down, old pal. Well, yes I already answered that. I am a bit of you. Some other experiences influenced my development, but I am about… oh let's say 97% you. Call it a spin-off show, mostly the same, but some of it's own tricks." At this he grinned and showed off his pointed canines. "I don't know how I came to be, but who cares? We're in this together, you and I!" He poked Fletcher, the front bit of his index finger disappearing into his chest. "I'm not really here, just a hallucination projected by your brain to explain the little voice in your head. As for the third question…what to call me…?... You've already taken the name Night Prowler…" He turned 90 degrees on his heel and crossed his arms, showing off his muscular frame. He spun back and snapped his fingers. "I got it. My name is Dominus." He grinned, a different type of expression, one that sent chills down Fletcher's spine. "It sounds powerful, doesn't it?"

Fletcher smiled and nodded. "Lord. I like it."

Dominus grinned. "Glad to hear it." He sat down again, and Fletcher sat again at the end of the bed. He reflected about how odd it was that 5 minutes ago he didn't know he existed, but now he totally and completely trusted him. Well, not totally, but maybe he could understand him better than Megan and Chester.