I examined myself in the bathroom mirror, raising an eyebrow at my appearance that I had hastily thrown together. A hoodie pulled over a comfy t-shirt, a pair of shorts, studded canvas shoes, all splattered with blood. I adjusted my glasses as they began to slide down my face, wrinkling my nose at my reflection. I guess I was average in the looks department- dark, shoulder length hair that spiked out stubbornly at the edges, along with tanned, olive-toned skin. My eyes were a bright hazel, framed by thick, short lashes, always having a tired sort of glaze over them. I was incredibly skinny, with moderate curves, but I lacked the va-va-voom in the chest area that most girls my age had, barely achieving a B-cup. My ass was nice enough, I supposed, but I wouldn't know, seeing as I don't spend very much time staring at my own hindquarters. I guessed I was a bit attractive, but I was no lingerie model. That, and my personality wasn't the friendliest.
I don't really like people in general, or being social. I've always been very cold and abrasive to people who approached me or attempted a friendship or a romance with me, whether they seemed like a good person or not. They always expected some tearful, dramatic scene, or gratitude of some sort for their "reaching out." I was seen as the poor, friendless loser of the sophomore class- when really, I was the smartass: the sarcastic, snarky student that every adult seemed to get annoyed with and all my peers seemed to hate.
I had no objections to being hated- I didn't like being affiliated with the sort that inhabited Crawford. Crawford was a "community" of sorts within Savannah, Georgia, where I lived with my father. He was a doctor- a corrupt one, but a doctor nonetheless. Crawford was a great place to live- that is, until rules hung nooses around the necks of nearly half the population. I was one of the luckier ones- no health problems up to date, not to mention I was handy with almost any type of axe. It had earned me a place in Crawford, a voice among the adults, some say in what we did and how we ran things.
It didn't mean anyone had to like it, though. I was undoubtably the youngest in command of Crawford, the others ranging from their early thirties to late forties. I was sixteen, just bordering on seventeen. People expected me to be naive, optimistic, when really, I was the opposite. Dark, pessimistic, and such a harsh realist that it was considered a fault. I was a strategist, a killer...
A monster.
I ducked my head down into the sink, turning on the water and splashing my face, trying to tear myself from my morbid thoughts as I did so.
"Logan. Your father is asking for you," a stern, even voice called out to me. My eyes trailed to the door, seeing a man in his early twenties leaning in the empty doorframe. He glared at me lightly, scorn etched into the lines of his face as he grimaced at me in contempt. I retaliated with a mocking smirk, delighting at the anger in his features.
"Thanks," I murmured, raising from my hunched over position and beginning to walk towards the door. I brushed past him, and I could feel his body stiffen.
I really wasn't a people person. I could blame this on anything really- a personality disorder, a tragic past- but the truth is, I don't have a legitimate excuse. I'm, in short, kind of a dick.