So this, this little thing is my first ever fanfiction! Well, the first one to be tossed into the real world and see the light of day. Okay, bit dramatic. But hey! I'm super nervous and just hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it! :)

Tate Langdon was buzzing. Shaking to the point he had to force his legs to stay on the ground, his charcoal eyes rounded and wide, blacker than ever with a hint of something else. sitting on his bed beside him lay an a small empty bag, the contents already pumping its way through his veins, making his vision blurred and his brain hazy. The numbers on the clock melted away, hour by hour he sat numb, and shaking violently as he fingered his most prized possession, his baby. Smooth and black, all this power in a weak boys hands. The power to Hurt, destroy, kill. His gun lay clasped in his long milky fingers glinting as the first bit of morning sun crept through his dank windows. Fuelled on the devils dandruff his mind was racing, voices bouncing around his head, some screaming, some pleading. As jumbled plans ran through his mind, stinging tears threatened to spill, falling over his eyelashes and staining his sunken cheeks. His tears tasted bitter. Just like the boy himself. Tate had an ever changing personality, it changed as quick as flicking a switch, kind and gentle one minute, scared and helpless another, then raging and dangerous the next. Tate Langdon was the definition of unpredictable. He had the ability to disengage from his emotions, every emotion apart from hate. There was too much hate in him to ignore. it plagued his body, eating away at him. He was mentally unstable and no one knew it better than himself. He wanted to kill. It was a hunger, a need. Raging inside he pulled out another two guns from under his bed, studying them as carefully as his blurred vision would let him.

"Soon" the voices repeated. Over and over they pounded around his head, causing him to shake even more, attempting to rid his brain of harmful thoughts. The blonde haired boy staggered from his bed to reach for his jacket, zipping the black hoodie all the way up he gathered his coat, bought at a thrift store three days earlier, it was new looking and grand. army embellishments and buttons that glistened and hurt his tired eyes. It was the coat you'd imagine someone of importance wearing, this coat meant power, strength. Everything Tate was not. This cloak of courage, power and strength, hung from his tired body making him feel alive. Giving him a sense of nerve, he was invincible.

Who knows, maybe it was the coat. Or maybe it was him.

/meanwhile\\

"He's doing well, no bad behaviour as yet" drawled a strong southern accent emasculating from the bright kitchen. "The drugs? Oh yes.. I'm- I don't- he's not a bad boy."

Standing at the kitchen sink, Constance stood slouched, vivid blonde hair tousled and the home phone wedged between her ear and shoulder.

"Nonsense!" she barked down the phone,

"My son, is perfectly fine! He's just- he's just depressed.."

She lowered her tone, as she single handidly lit up a cigarette bringing it to her red painted lips.

"He spends all day up in his room.. no.. no there's no way of talking to him.. I don't-.. well, yes... he has mentioned voices.."

Grey smoke came billowing out of her mouth as she spoke, only to be inhaled once more as she sucked in breath.

"He's a sad, lonely boy that's all... yes... no...He needs friends..Hell, he just needs a hobby" she sighed sitting down at the rickety kitchen table. Without another breath she slammed down the phone on the table and took off upstairs.

"Tate? Tate honey?" she called, reaching the top step, her bloodshot eyes strained to see down the hall, his door was closed, of course it would be.

"Tate, Tate please talk to me? It's been three days"

No movement. Taking a drag out of her cigarette, her anger started to rise.

"if you don't come out right this minute!"

Still no movement, except for constances orders echoing around the house, making the old wooden floors creak.

Sitting bolt up right at his desk Tate clenched his jaw. that bitch. he didn't answer to anyone, especially not her, a cocksucking whore. Fingering his gun once again, he rose to look in the mirror. Reaching out a bony hand, he wiped away the dust giving himself a good view of his own face. "Ha" he spat staring blankly at his reflection. He didn't see his reflection as himself, his mirror showed a weak boy, a scared little boy. a pale face, graced with beauty and killer cheekbones, plump lips that were chapped and sore, and two dimples that made the odd appearance whenever he smiled, which wasn't often. Curls, blonde, just like his mother. Yet his hair was wild and unruly, no matter how much he tried, the curls always remained, falling into his face. his eyes were the only thing about himself he liked. they were dark and deep. Such a deep brown they could be black. They were emotionless and never gave anything away, his eyes were always empty. Just like his soul.

Lifting his sleeve he examined the fresh cuts, they stung, yet felt numb. His drug fuelled mind made the blood look even more appealing; it flowed in such beautiful patterns, like a river of pain. Cutting was a comfort, something he'd promised was a "one time thing", yet every week, without fail, out came a small black case hidden under his mattress, containing blades of different sizes, razors, knives, anything with the power to cut his tough skin. To slice with enough force to provoke a feeling. A feeling of control. Cutting meant control, he controlled this pain, not his mother, not the voices, him. And it made a change to feel something, coke and meth had made him numb, numb to hardly any emotion except hate and despair. so pain made a nice little appearance now and then, making him feel a little more human.

"Tate Langdon!" screeched an unwelcome voice, crushing his thoughts.

"YOU GET TO SCHOOL RIGHT NOW! It's been three weeks! If I get one more phone call from you-"

Clenching his fists at the sound of her voice, he quickly gathered his guns, pushed them under the bed and grabbed his bag. Tate shuffled to the door and yanked it open, ignoring the pain in his eyes as direct sunlight hit them. Standing before him was his mum, hair scraped back tight, almost as tight as her heavily botoxed face sneering up at him, clad in a long pink flowery night gown holding a cigarette.

"Goodbye mother" he quipped as he made his way downstairs. Brushing past her without another word.

School would be fun.

I Really hope you liked it! If you did, or even if you didn't, a review would be lovely! :)

An update a day? I will try my best!