(A/N: This is a rewrite of the story Time to Go, Alex by Cap't Mo. It didn't originally belong to me. However, I got permission to rewrite and continue this story. I hope you'll like it.)
Chapter 1
The knife clanked softly as I set it back down on the table. After checking to make sure it hadn't been stained, I inspected the cut it had made on my arm, fascinated as bright red blood—my blood—oozed out of it. It wasn't too deep; I'd done this enough times in the last month to know there was no need to worry. I doubted anyone really cared what I did, unless I was needed, of course. Now fifteen, I was off from school for the winter term, dreading the day I had to go back. Sure, I h ad friends at school, but I didn't look forward to explaining all the scars that ran up and down the insides of my arms. I'd have to get long-sleeved shirts—I wasn't looking to draw attention to myself. Right now, attention was the last thing I needed.
If Jack was still around, none of this would have happened. But she was gone now, and I doubted she'd ever come back. I'd come home from school the day before holiday to an empty house and one lonely note that had obviously been scrawled out quickly, as if she'd had little time to write it. I carried it with me every day, unfolding it and refolding it so many times it had ripped slightly in a few places. But her message was still all too visible; even if it wasn't, I'd long since managed to memorize it.
Alex,
Something's come up. I have to leave immediately. I'll try to call. I don't know how long I'll be gone. Stay out of trouble.
xoxo, Jack
But Jack hadn't called. And now, I was starting to think that maybe, just like MI6, she'd forgotten about me too.
The first days after she'd left had gone alright. I'd told myself she'd be back before I knew it and not to worry about her. But slowly, I'd secluded myself more and more, until I just stayed at home all by myself with nothing to do. I only ate a few times a week, and even then, it was nothing much. I was cutting up some chicken one day when I realized I was holding a knife in my hand. Having probably lost some of my sanity at that point, I decided to experiment using it on myself, and when I did, watching my blood stain the tiled floor beneath me, I finally felt better again, whole. I needed to inflict pain to feel I was still alive, and so I did. Slowly, I did it again, then again, and once more… until I was cutting every day before bed. And why not? It wasn't like anyone cared, after all. At least it gave me something to look forward to every day.
Did anything in life even matter anymore? Did life itself even matter anymore? Right now, to me, I was starting to think life really didn't matter so much anymore. I yawned, tired, and decided to try to sleep even though I really hadn't slept much lately. I kept having these strange dreams… I can't explain them since I don't remember what they were about, but they were disturbing. I stood up to wrap something around my arm—the blood had stopped, to my slight disappointment—and headed downstairs. As I was leaving the kitchen, I heard a knock on the door. Was it Jack? No, Jack had keys, she wouldn't bother with knocking. But neither would a kidnapper, especially at this hour…
There was another knock, more distinct and demanding this time. I crept to the front door and looked out the peephole to see no one was there. Hm, maybe I was just imagining things. I turned to return to my room. Just as I got far enough away, however, a loud crash resounded through the room as the door came crashing down. I swallowed back a noise of surprise as I backed away from the door, startled. Okay, unless Jack was playing some cruel joke on me, this most certainly was snot her. But who else would break down my door at one forty in the morning?
A man with fair hair and piercing blue eyes gazed nonchalantly at me, considering the fact that he'd just knocked an entire front door down. Without invitation, he stepped inside. Immediately, I had a strange feeling about this man. I'd seen him before, but where? I decided to state the most obvious first and deal with that later.
"Who are you and why are you here?"
His eyes travelled up and down me; I immediately moved my left arm behind my back. Somehow, I knew I wasn't going to like his answer. "I'm John Rider, Alex, your father. I'm here to take you home with me."
I couldn't help laughing derisively. "Yeah, that explains everything."
"Look at me, Alex," he simply stated.
"I am looking at you, I don't really have a say in the matter. Get out of my house."
He chuckled—I still refused to believe he was my father. "Alex, haven't you heard anything about me? I'm not the type to listen to idle threats."
"Fine," I grumbled. "Why are you here?"
"I told you—to take you home. It'll be better for you there, I promise."
"I'm fine with the way things are. Leave me alone, you've screwed my life up enough."
He came closer; I remained frozen in place. "I didn't intend for you to end up like… this…"
"Maybe I like 'this.'"
"No, you don't—who would?"
"I would."
He sighed. "This isn't going to be easy, is it?"
"Haven't you heard anything about me? I never make things easy."
"I thought as much." He was very close now. "But it was worth a shot. I should have known my son would be exactly like me."
"I'm not your son, and you're not my father!" I yelled. "Get out!"
He shook his head. "I see I have no choice then."
"Oh, leaving so soon? Let me show you the way out."
"Very funny, Alex." He raised his hand, revealing a syringe. Where had it come from? My heart pounded wildly, leaping into my throat. Now what?
"You were expecting a fight, weren't you?"
"I always expect a fight… but how about you make the process a little easier and come quietly?"
I made my decision immediately—I bolted away from him. I hadn't gotten very far before he tackled me, almost as if he'd anticipated the move. I struggled against him, but pinned to the floor, it was all pretty futile. But of course I struggled against him anyway. Life sucked, sure, but it was definitely better than this. Suddenly, the man seized my arm, sitting on me, and inhaled sharply when he saw it. I winced at his weight and the equally painful silence.
"This is already worse than I thought," he murmured.
"Just get off!" I grumbled, flailing beneath him again. But he was obviously prepared, and the glint of the syringe's needle caught my eye.
"You're not afraid of a little shot, are you, Alex?" I winced at the exact words that had once almost caused my death, but he didn't seem to notice as he aimed the needle into me. At this point, I decided to just cooperate and let him inject me—if I struggled, he might make a mistake and accidentally kill me. I could think of better ways to die.
"Not going to sing me a lullaby?" I sarcastically asked.
He stood up now, lifting me as if I was nothing more than a sack of potatoes. "I'm sure you'll find that is rather unnecessary." His smile was somewhat sympathetic now. "Sleep, Alex—you need it."
I opened my mouth to protest, but then the drug took effect and my eyes slid shut. And finally, for the first time in so long, I was able to find true rest…
(A/N: What do you think? Would it function well as a stand-alone or a full story? I know what Chapter 2 will be about and it will come soon and I have ideas for the plot of this story. Thanks for reading!)
