Disclaimer: I Do Not Gain Any Profit From Grand Theft Auto Or Any Songs Mentioned In This Fan-Fiction.
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Warning: This Chapter Mentions Use Of Drugs, Self-Mutilation, Mild-Yet Graphic Scenes Of Murder, And The Discussion Of Child Molestation And Rape. Read At Your Own Risk.
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Chapter Three
~What Hurts The Most~
"I know what you want so desperately
You know I'll give you one for free
Forever you're coming back to me
Now I'm gonna give you what you need
Cause I know what you fiend on and what you lean on
And what you lean on."-'Painkiller- Three Days Grace'
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He'd promised himself he wouldn't give into it. That there wouldn't be any blood to shed. That he wouldn't kill anyone. He went back on that promise. He'd bludgeoned a male to death. And he got joy from seeing the male wither in pain as he drove the crowbar over and over into his skull until he stopped moving and his light blue eyes turned a dull grey. And he smiled as the males crimson blood stained the pavement. He'd chuckled freakishly when they had discovered his dead body the next morning. Angel, who'd been lying next to him had awoken to his deep voice, her eyes narrowed the slightest bit as she listened to the television tell of her fathers victim, before burying her head into the pillow and falling back to sleep, clueless to Trevor's malicious smirk.
He'd laughed. They couldn't trace him. They couldn't find him. They were trying to- but in reality, they wouldn't succeed. After all; he'd covered his tracks nicely. There was no weapon. There was no fingerprints. There was no left behind evidence. Nothing. It was blank. And there wasn't shit they could do about it. He was content with that. And if there was ever a day someone figured out it was him and asked why he did it, he'd simply reply: "Why the hell not? There's nothing like seeing a person give their last breath as their blood paints the pavement! Oh, and the sight of their eyes becoming that oh-so beautiful grey as the pigmentation drains from their body. That, my friend, is why I did it. Now get the fuck out of my face."
He simply did it because he could fucking do it and do a damn good job at it. It was an art. Well, in his opinion it was. It was also a coping mechanism. Coping from the shit he'd lost in all of his life. After all of the pressure of it overcame his mind he'd snapped. He wanted to spill blood. He wanted to spill blood for his child who never got the childhood most of the brats now and days did. He wanted to spill blood for his mother that plagued his dreams. He wanted to spill blood for himself. Little by little his pain was washed away with every person that was murdered. And he didn't kill just anyone; he killed the people that deserved it. The people that fucked with his mind. The people that'd fucked him over. That was part of his coping mechanism.
And for every death there was always a redemption. His sanity was slowly being regained. Yet at the same time, it was slipping away. Did he give a damn though? No. So long as his child was safe, he would continue doing what felt right. After all he needed this. He needed the pain release. He needed to hear the pleas and screams from his victims. He needed to hear the breaking of bones. He yearned to see the blood pool on the fucking pavement. Just so he could fucking laugh with the coldest fucking gaze he could muster and blame their deaths on them.
Because that's what he sought from his victims. He wanted to bask in their agony as he let his out through the mutilations.
"Jesus fucking Christ! You're fucking crazy man!"
He remembered his first kill. It brought back memories. Memories that he wished he didn't have anymore. But he relished in them. He adored them. And with every kill he felt a pang of satisfaction fill his chest as they flooded his mind. It felt so good to be able to break every bone in someone's body. To hear the beat of their heart become softer and softer. To watch their skin drain of color. To hear their last breath escape their lips. It seemed as though their soul was leaving their body. He loved it.
"Shit! Fucking stop, you asshole! I think you broke my fucking kneecaps! Fucking shit- Agh!"
And though it felt good. His conscience said different. With every kill there was the image of his child that popped up in his mind. And then there was the guilt. The guilt that his child spent her nights alone wondering what the hell he was doing so late. The guilt that told him that she would hate him for an eternity if she found out. And at those times he wanted to drop everything and go back to her. Just for the sake of going back. So she could know that he was okay. That he wasn't out there every night killing people for his sanity. He wanted to drop everything so he could go back and reassure her that he was just fine and she didn't have to worry. To reassure her that he wasn't breaking. So she could reassure him that he was fine. So she could hug him and fall asleep with her head on his shoulder.
"You've been lying to her this entire time."
Michael knew. He hadn't told him, but he knew. How? Because apparently he knew his style of murder. From all of the years they'd know one another he knew how he liked to kill. That was bullshit. In reality the bastard had found out from Ron's slip up. So, fuck Ron.
"It's for her safety, Mikey. Don't get involved."
Honestly, he wanted to snap his fucking neck. But he couldn't do that to his best-friend. The least he could do was threaten to fucking chop off his tongue and force feed it to him. Which was way better than actually committing the act. Although he did have the urge to most of the time.
"Do you even know what the fuck you're doing to her?"
That was a stupid fucking question. Of course he knew what he was doing to her. He was keeping her out of his fucked up affairs. Emotionally, he was fucking with her head. Making her think it was her fault that he was staying out late. In reality, they'd talked about this after the first month of him staying out late.
"I know exactly what I've done to her, Mikey. In all honesty, she and I have already had this conversation. So, unbundle your panties and calm down."
Well, he told the partial truth. She still didn't know he was killing. But what she did know was that he was out at night to do business. Not because he didn't want to be in her presence. Cause that would be bullshit. He loved her too much to want to stay away.
"So you told her you were killing people?"
Not directly, you fucker!
"Not directly. All she knows is that I stay out late to handle business."
Exactly how he'd just explained it.
"So you're partially lying to her, ya prick?!"
Yes, finally he gets it! Sometimes he questioned his friends' logic.
"Yes, you finally fucking get it! Fucking idiot. Now get the fuck off of my phone and have a nice night with your, Mikey!"
"Trevor, I swear if you hang up I will-!"
"Whatever. Buh-bye now!"
There was always the 'think about your child' segment between the two of them. Sometimes he just wanted to tell him to shut his fucking mouth. Because at times, no one wants to hear that bullshit. It got fucking annoying. Hell, all he wanted to do was release some of his pain. But no, Michael had to step in like a fucking superhero and try to prevent him from doing what he did best.
So he started shooting up again. It wasn't a good solution. But it was a pain killer. And it helped him out a lot. That was something he refused to tell Angel. He didn't want her to think he would end up just like her mother. A fucked up drug-addict who'd end up slitting his wrists and bleeding out in his bathtub. He'd been thinking of his death a lot lately. It kind of hurt to think about. He could practically feel the scars he'd inflict on himself. Just like he did when he was sixteen all the way up to twenty five. He had a thing for self-mutilation. Which was why he was littered in scars. He liked the feeling he'd gotten when he carved letters into his skin. Though that was years ago, he still got those urges sometimes. He never acted on it.
Not since he'd seen the jagged scars on his child. The one scar that led from her left ear across the bridge of her nose had fucked him up. That made the other scars look like scrapes compared to that one. And though it helped that her bangs would hide most of it, it still didn't change the fact that it was still fucking there. They reminded him of his old self. It sickened him to the core.
"Sometimes it still burns. If I reminisce too much and that one particular memory floats in it'll start to sting."
The way she explained it- her scars burned when she reminisced upon the fucked up past. His did the same. Yet he felt numb when he would shoot up. He couldn't feel that same pain he'd get when he would trace over his scars, when he'd think about his past, or when he'd drink and he would gaze upon a knife and carefully retrace those carvings. It didn't hurt anymore. Not when he was intoxicated. Not when he was high. And certainly not when he was with Angel.
"That's something we both have in common, Angel."
He had a problem. A problem that couldn't be helped unless he got high. Or unless he forgot. It was hard to forget sometimes. Sometimes you just couldn't forget and for what it's worth you probably weren't meant to forget it.
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"Dad, Is it alright to hate the people that hurt you in the past?" She asked, her eyes boring into his own. She was carrying a scowl upon her lips but he could read it all through her eyes. She was confused, as she sat upon his bed, knees pulled up against her chest, as her tuft of curls fell in her face.
"Well it depends on what the assholes have done to you," He paused to take a swig from his beer bottle before continuing, "You can't hate the people who have tried to help out. You can't help the ones who are just as broken as you are, who have just as much hatred as you do, or the ones who've fucked you over."
"What about my mother? Can I hate her for putting me through so much? For letting them beat me for their satisfaction? For the love she never gave? Can I hate her for letting him," She choked out a sigh, pushed the hair out of her eyes and looked away, hesitating for a moment, "For letting him give me so many scars that I began to lose count? For being too high and drunk to stop them from touchingme?"
He thought for a moment, his gaze dropping to the floor as he placed the bottle on the nightstand. He turned to look at her, sighed, and spoke, "Angel, for what it's worth, it wasn't your mothers fault. She didn't hand you over to them so they could hurt you. You can never blame her for something a monster did. Even though what she did was fucked up- she loved you more than anything and I feel that you should love her the same."
"I do but, sometimes it hurts. My scars, they burn when I try to rid myself of the pain. I can still feel them dragging knives across my arms and legs. And I can still see her sitting there, staring at me as if I was the most disgusting thing she'd ever seen. It hurts to know that even when she could do something she didn't because we needed the money. She wanted me to endure it so we could eat and she could get her fix. I couldn't stand the pain, so why did she make me suffer every single day? Why did it have to me to have to be beaten when I refused? Why did I have to get slashed across the face because I was too small to defend myself?! It hurts to know that throughout the eleven years I was born she didn't care what they did to me after I could walk and talk? And when she finally killed herself she said that it was because she didn't want to see me being hurt anymore! She left me alone! She failed at an attempt to keep me safe from her because she caused me even more pain!" The small girl sobbed out, rubbing at her tear-filled eyes.
He could only stare as she let her tears fall. Throughout the entire time he'd been taking care of her he'd never seen her shed any tears no matter what happened. Even as she lied in hospital bed when she was near death she shed no tears. Yet, as she proclaimed her hurt her dam broke and his nearly did as well. He felt a pang in his chest as she shook with silent sobs. He couldn't respond, so what else could he do but pull her against his chest and let her sob to her hearts content, whilst shedding his own tears and running his fingers through her hair.
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"Sometimes it's just easier to endure it rather than go to great lengths to fix it. That's what I've learned over the years."
That's what she told him. And even though it hurt he tried pushing all of the pain to the back of his mind and hope it would go away. Eventually it did. And even though there were mild memories in the form of dreams, he got over it. After all, if she could do it, he could too.
It got easier. And though he would still shoot up he was never in pain. His scars, they didn't burn anymore. They didn't leave reminders that he'd hurt himself. That it was his fault. It felt good. It felt better than murdering random people. It felt better than contemplating death. It felt better than having to explain that you needed help to your daughter. And at times he could still see the blood that coated his hands there even though he'd washed them many times. Even though he still felt like a fucking monster. I guess those are just the after effects of a relapse…
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"Sometimes your walls will crash and fall and there will be nothing you can do about it. The real you will be exposed to the harsh, cruel reality that you tried to get away from but you'll be consumed and forced to face the real world because you no longer have a shell to protect you. Some people don't have these shells though; for example, you and I. We were both children who grew up way too fucking fast. We never got the shelter others got. We were just thrown into this big, fucked up world to learn and survive and surprisingly we turned out fucking fine! Don't ya think, Angel?" He'd asked the teen next to him as they sat upon the bed of his truck. The small girl let out a light laugh and nodded, before turning a gaze upon Michael and Dash.
"Well, I think you turned out fucking crazy. But, there's nothing wrong with that!" Michael spoke up, from beside him. The male glared, "You're always a fucking buzzkill. Can't you be posi-fucking-tive for once, Mikey?"
"Hey, I can be positive when I want to. I just choose not to be!"
"Both of you give off a negative vibe, to be honest." Angel muttered, causing Dash to nod in agreement, "Sometimes I wonder if you two are related. But then I stop and think that you two look nothing alike." She finished causing a laugh to bubble from her male companions' throat.
"Well, what about you two? You'd think you were siblings with the way you act." Michael said to the teenage girl. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, "We act that way because you two are raising us. We pick up after your habits."
"Who fucking cares! The fireworks are about to start!" Trevor snapped, taking a swig from his beer. Michael shook his head at the male, before lighting a cigarette and staring up at the sky. Angel and Dash, who were sharing a bowl of popcorn, laughed lightly and watched the violet sky become lit up with stars.
And all were at peace…
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"Honestly, you are the only people that I'd actually really want as my family. You, Michael, Dash, Wade, Ron, and Franklin- You are the only people I can actually feel comfortable with." The girl spoke as she leaned against the tree behind their home, "I don't think I've built relationships with anyone else. I don't think any other people have made me just as happy as all of you have. I'm kind of overwhelmed by it."
"Why overwhelmed? I mean, I know it's kind of foreign for you to build relationships like you did with all of us. But, I don't understand the overwhelming feeling." Trevor questioned, his brow quirked in confusion.
"Not only is it foreign. But, I haven't been lied to since I've been here. I've always been able to detect when I'm not wanted, yet I haven't felt that since I've been here. It scares me a bit." She explained to the best of her ability.
"I know how you feel. I found out I had a kid and I don't know jack shit about kids. When I figured out that I'd be raising you it kind of set me off edge. Hell, I barely knew how to take care of myself. Yet when you were added to my fucked up reality, I kind of knew shit would get even more fucked. Though, you surprised me, kid. You knew a lot for a child your age so I felt as though I didn't need to do much but protect you from the disgusting fucks in the world. I was scared nearly shitless when I thought you were dying. When you were out of it for three days and wouldn't wake up- I thought I'd majorly fucked up as a dad just as I beginning to feel like one." Trevor expressed, running his fingers through his hair. Angel nodded in understanding, all the while twiddling her thumbs.
"Do you miss your mom at all?" He asked curiously. The teen stopped her actions, her gaze at the ground, "I do. Though, not as much as I used to. Like when she first died."
"Is it supposed to hurt that bad though? Am I supposed to get that burning feeling whenever I think about her?" She'd questioned him, her gaze meeting his. He paused, thinking of an answer to her question, before speaking, "I- I wouldn't know. I haven't talked to my mom in years, so I wouldn't know."
"Oh…" She muttered, giving a light nod.
"Yeah…" He scratched the back of his head awkwardly.
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"Sometimes blood is shed in the process of forgetting. Sometimes it's good for the blood to be shed. It makes you feel refreshed. Yet at the same time- It hurts. So, we have to embrace the pain. And succumb to it. And maybe…the pain will wash away all of the memories from the past."
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"I, I can be your painkiller, killer, killer
You'll love me till it's all over, over
Cause I'm the shoulder you cry on
The dose that you die on
I, I can be your painkiller, killer, killer"-'Painkiller- Three Days Grace'
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