TROY

The hot water surged onto my face, erupting steam as well. I could feel my entire body stiffen as the drops of liquid stung certain parts of my body. I breathed in sharply, the pain engulfing me entirely. Fortunately for me, I was potent enough to ignore unbearable amounts of pain.

The locker room was empty. The silence became intimidating. All I could hear was the sound of the shower. I tried to hasten the moment, not wanting to pique at recent scars.

I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my waist, heading towards my gym locker. I unlocked it and began putting on my dark blue jeans and fitting dark-black t-shirt. I threw on a zip-up, navy-blue hoodie afterwards.

I quickly grabbed my backpack, my hair drenched. I made my way out of the locker room. But I was anything but eager to get out of that school.

I took a step outside. New Mexico was always hot, and you couldn't bare it without a bottle of water at all times. But at night, it was tolerably about forty degrees.

I liked the calmness of the stars, and the beauty of the moon.

All my muscles ached despairingly. My legs felt like they were about to fall off. I could only blame this on running, and basketball. However, my arms, and my chest felt stitched. My back hurt the worst. And my eyes were bloodshot.

I tried to concentrate on something that made me happy. But I couldn't. My brain was half-dead, and I felt emotionless.

I was chewing on my bottom lip as I slid into my piece of shit of a car, just a little reminder of how I don't belong in this world.

I sighed, the nagging at my body just getting worse by the contact with the seat. I set the keys into the ignition, praying to God that the beast would come to life. I drove a truck, sky-blue, but the paint job was fucked. It looked like it had just come out of the junkyard.

Technically, it had.

It roared viciously as it came to life, like a monster of some sort. I just scowled in disgust as I pulled the thing out of the empty parking lot.

At night, East High seemed dead. I'm not kidding when I say dead. It was all so silent. It was too peaceful to be real. Maybe that's why my 'excuse' practices lasted so long.

While on the road, I realized Chad had texted me about ten times, telling me I should come to his house when I'm finished with practice. He knew I was a bit obsessed with practicing. He knew I drained myself out. But there was no way in hell I'd be able to come to his house now.

I always told him I was sore from practice when he seen me rubbing my back, or massaging my shoulders. He didn't know the real reason, and that wasn't about to change any time soon.

I found myself driving up my own driveway, hundreds of negative thoughts flowing through my mind as I spotted his car in the driveway. I groaned to myself, looking up, angrily as I shut off the car. The beast became still, placid.

I had to force myself up the steps and into the front door. My house was large, larger than most.

Since my dad quit being a coach, he got hired at some famous vacation place to work. He wasn't usually around much; too busy making the big bucks. However, tonight must have been an exception.

Downstairs, it was quiet, neutral. It didn't seem right. I threw my backpack onto the coffee table by the television and strolled throughout the house. It was as if no one was home; there was dead silence.

I headed upstairs, and heard two loud voices. My mind changed. There was definitely somebody home.

The voices weren't talking, they were moaning, blatant and disturbing. I cringed at the thought of my dad having sex with that tramp.

"Troy? Is that you?" His voice bellowed out to me, as I made my way towards my room.

"Yeah." I answered, nonchalantly, heading towards my room.

"Where the hell have you been?" Yeah, he was pretty pissed off, no doubt.

"I stayed a little bit after practice, that's all." I yelled back, heading into my bedroom and slamming the door.

I was exhausted. I could have just lied down and fell asleep, right then and there.

My body was aching, it seemed excruciating.

I fell back on my bed, hitting the pillow. I just needed to gain my composure. I needed to breathe.

My heart started to race when I heard footsteps near my door. I frowned and looked up to my ceiling. Not tonight. I hoped. Not tonight.

"I told your daddy that I was gonna take you out for ice cream." She leaned on the doorframe like a prostitute ready to make her keep.

"One day . . . he's gonna find out." I muttered, more to myself then her.

"Shut the fuck up. I think you and I both know he doesn't give a rat's ass about you. He beat you up pretty good last night, I'll admit." She smirked, her psychopathic golden eyes making me ill.

"Are you ready for tonight?"

"Just fucking stop . . . ." I winched, shaking my head, burying it into the pillow.

"Troy, we don't want to make this rough, now do we?" She was approaching me, grabbing something out of her pocket.

My eyes sauntered up from the pillow, something lustrous appearing in her hands. My stomach churned and I swallowed, thickly as she poised herself in front of me. I was far too stiff to move, but God I wanted to so bad . . . to kill the woman. I hated her more than anything.

"You're gonna help me, tonight. It's gonna be great."

"It's never great." I snarled.

She was a crazy bitch, for crying out loud. She was demented in so many mental areas. Why my dad stood by her bewildered me. She was disgusting, her greasy tawny-colored hair, fake long red nails, and mousy green eyes. She belonged in a nuthouse, not my home.

My dad didn't care though. He loved her more than me. I was just the overdramatic basketball player he once showed interest in years ago. Then he found her, and fell in love with someone who he knew nothing about. He had no idea that she was insane. He didn't know what she made me feel like. He didn't have any fucking clue. And despite how much I tried to tell him, he ignored me.

She yanked me off of my bed, and pulled the knife up to my neck, "You know damn well all the shit I've got on you, and had I died, your dad would be one hundred percent positive it was you, because I've told him over and over that I know you wish I was dead."

"You're . . . insane." I choked, her grasp was so tight, and I could hardly breathe.

I was eighteen years old and she was thirty-six and involved in all kinds of shit with the police. She just used a fake ID to cover it all up. Like I said, nuthouse . . . her real name wasn't even Sara (like she said it was), it was Isabella. She just didn't like the name because she thought it didn't suit her.

"Now, you'll be good, or like I said, you know what'll happen." She grinned, that hideous grin that revealed her set of teeth.

One of them was slightly chipped, and it looked like she hadn't flossed in ages. Why? I wondered as she pulled me downstairs. Why did my father like this woman?

They've been dating for about seven months now, and it's been seven months of hell for me. My dad had mentioned getting engaged to her many times. I could only pray to God that it would never happen. She started messing with me after two months.

She thought it'd be cool for me to witness her dirty work. By dirty work, I mean, her being a crazy, malicious murderer for the day. With a fucking weapon to my neck, the decision became oppressive.

She shoved me outside, and I gained the nerve to get up.

I turned around to face her, and she grabbed me by the arms, straining me back.

"I'm not fucking stupid. Stop being sneaky and just walk." She demanded.

She took me into the trees, far out by the edge of town, where she parked her car, bizarrely miles away from my house. She was more suspicious than anyone in the world, and nobody ever suspected it.

We'd get into her car, and we'd go to this place she used to live. It was a plantation, and all the crops were dead. I usually wasn't the only kid that was there. She'd go and pick up random kids that seemed scared shitless. But these kids were young, about five or six, maybe even younger. She was the "stranger" that would accidentally pick them up on the street. She was the "good person" that supposedly knew their parents. It was all bull shit. She didn't know anyone.

She had a group of people alongside her. They were guys - big, bodybuilder-like guys, their chests must have been made of steel. They were so tall, probably about "6' at least. All I know, was they scared me out of my mind.

You'd have to be fucking superman to look up at them and say, "I'm not afraid of you."

They were all lunatics. They lived to see death, they yearned to see it. I felt like I was involved in the Chainsaw Massacre for awhile. I was so scarred by all of it. I couldn't sleep at night. I'd have dreams of them, of this. That place was haunted, haunted by disturbing memories.

One of the guys, his name was Augustus. It was such an atypical name, I couldn't ever forget it. I hated him, with a fiery red passion. I hated Sara (Isabella) much more though.

Augustus was the one who would put the gun to my head and say, "Don't you fucking go anywhere, pussy."

He'd force me to watch them destroy these kids, from head to toe. Sometimes, they'd try and make me do it.

By then, I'd find some way to get out of there. They thought it was hilarious, a young guy like me, having to watch these kinds of things. If I didn't watch, they'd hit me, or usually they just hit me anyway. They were deranged. They all belonged in mental hospitals. I felt like I was doing the world wrong by not saying anything. But I was too scared out of my mind to even talk about it, yet alone think about it. It kept me up at night. I was terrified of everything.

In my mind, I couldn't control my own thoughts. I was feeling twisted myself. I would hear voices that would tell me what to do, how to feel, how to react. I became paranoid about everything. I felt like everyone was out to get me.

On the inside, everything was menacing. My life became something I hated; it became something I wanted to throw away. On the outside, I was acting perfectly fine; I was acting like everything was okay.

If a friend came over, she would be sickeningly nice to them, and they'd be convinced she was an okay person for my dad. It seemed so shallow of everyone to not notice anything.

I came to school, fatigue written all over my face, and a bitter emptiness hidden in my eyes. Every time I moved, the affliction reminded me of everything from those nights. I could hear the screaming, smell the blood, taste my own tears, and I could see her demonic eyes.

I'd be sitting in class and everything would just eat me alive. I wanted to just scream. I couldn't control my own thoughts; they were driving me off the wall. I felt as if I was guilty for not saying anything, for being mute about it.

I was so fucking broken though, I couldn't just waltz up to Chad and say, "Well, my dad's girlfriend is a psychopath and she's been forcing me to watch her kill people."

God, no, do you know how crazy that would sound? I'd be sent to the sanitarium.

They all stood so sickly around each other, smirking like this was their entertainment. They longed for the sounds of screaming, the fear in the children's eyes. I couldn't watch. They held onto me so I couldn't break free. The sorrow that filled me couldn't be controlled.

I was kneeling on the ground, my head in my hands, squeezing my eyes shut. At the same time, I felt like it was my fault these people were getting killed. I could have gone to the police, or something - got them all behind bars. But I couldn't even trust the police.

I had scars from things they did to me. I mean, they were lunatics. They didn't care; they thought it was factitious to make me suffer. They laughed when I shed my tears. I was the tough guy at school, the basketball player. I was the one with the strength; I was the one that everybody looked up to. Even girls were drawn to me, as if I was some charismatic leader or something. They thought I was attractive, that I was cool, had an impeccable style. I'd just wonder in my mind, what would they think if they knew this was my life, if they knew what I was going through? They'd just hate me; hate me for being such a coward and not speaking out about it. I mean, this was serious - this was a killing of many people.

It's hard to understand how anyone could keep their sanity after seeing these types of things. The sad, but realistic truth was, I had lost some of my sanity, and I just faked it all the time. I acted collected at school; I smiled at people and made jokes. They thought I was living a normal, common life. They thought even my dad was cool. My dad didn't even believe me. He had to be blind not to see the fear in my eyes, the angst in the way I walked, and the way the air was so bloody when we came back to the house.

But he just ignored it, kissed her, and whenever I suggested she was crazy, he'd smack me across the face and say, "Troy, you need to get your act together."

She walked inside, disregarding me as I pulled myself onto a chair in my backyard. I felt sick inside, like I was about to hurl any second.

I closed my eyes, trying to remove the images I seen. I couldn't. They wouldn't go away. I ran my fingers through my hair frenetically, all my emotions clouding together. I broke.

I looked at the sky, breathing out. My body still hurt from the other night, and the nauseating feeling never left my soul. The stars were limitless and I found myself wishing something. I never wished on stars, ever. I wasn't the poetic, sensitive type. But at that moment, I felt vulnerable at every level. I couldn't cry though. My feelings were numb. I felt like there was nothing inside of me.

I didn't even know what I was wishing - that someone would realize what was happening to me?

I just wanted to live again. I wanted to breathe without rehashing all these events, without putting up with open wounds all over again. I just wanted someone to listen to me. At the same time, that was impossible too. Even if I told one of my friends, they either wouldn't believe me, or they would think that I lost my mind. I couldn't risk the chance of becoming some freak. I wasn't the freak here.

My head was spinning ten times the speed of light. I needed to sleep. I had to sleep. I hadn't slept for a week, at least. One day, I snuck over to Chad's, and I got some rest, finally. Then, when I got home, I was exhausted all over again.

I just wanted my life to go back to the way it used to be. I wanted my dad to forget about her. I hated her, so much. She wasn't even healthy for my dad. I was terrified.

On the outside, I was composed and dauntless. On the inside, I was cynical and helpless. When you're a guy, and you can't fight back . . . nothing could get any worse.

And the way the children's screams echoed in your soul, it was just something you could never forget about. Suddenly, it was your fault. But there was nothing you could do to stop it.

I rested my head in my hands again. It was going to be a long night again tonight.


END OF CHAPTER