Heath let the hot water run over his head, watching his scarlet hair turn once more dirty blonde. The hard water made streaks on his chest, where blood had stained his tanned skin like clay. Heath held the soapy cloth in his hands feeling the burning irritation of the slices in his fingers from his earlier fight, liking the warmth heat his chilled bones and it made him feel a little less monstrous and a bit more human.
Sure, Dad had sent the goon after him. Sure, he pulled out the pistol on him, shot at him even. But was he actually going to kill him or was it empty threats and orders given to shake Heath up a bit? Was it necessary to kill the man?
'Those questions will never be answered I guess.' Heath thought, a slightly guilty conscience nagging at him.
'Then again, if you really wanted to save him as you so think, you wouldn't have given up control so easily. Admit it. You WANTED to do it...'
That menacing Voice spoke again, and disappeared back into silence, leaving Heath only more conflicted about the Voice and his feelings.
Heath sat outside, smoking a cigarette, a cold hand clutching snow to his swollen face. His eye was closed up completely, his envy worthy face now purple-blue and ugly. It was the next day, and his father hadn't come home that night, making Mom go search for him in the process. He was alone now, again.
Heath took a drag of his cigarette, exhaling as he wore his warmer and dryer clothes from home. He wore a deep purple beanie that happened to match his scarf his mom had so generously washed. He wore black combat boots that flattened soft snow into hard packed sleet under his weight. He wore thermals and was decked in all black, He wore a leather jacket, similar to a motorcycle leather coat, except a large jester symbol on the black, embroidered with a vibrant green and deep purple. He would seem to be just another kid living in the narrows, albeit a bit mischievous, except he was marked. Joker territory. Which made people either distance themselves away from him, or question him as a target or possible weak link in his dad's criminal syndicate. But with his little display yesterday, he doubted anyone would be willing to pick a fight with him anytime soon.
He finished his cigarette and fetched a new one from his tin, flinging the snow out of his numb hand dripping with water. He stood and exhaled a breath of carcinogens before walking back into the house. He looked through the fridge, helping himself to a beer, going into his room. He popped off the top with his hand and the edge of the counter, taking a few gulps from the cool bottle, slightly dampening the bandages on his fingers where he had sliced them during the fight yesterday.
His room held a small bin for clothes, two stacked mattresses on the floor loosely covered with sheets, a small stolen TV with cable. Homework and textbooks were scattered from earlier, a calculator and pens scattered on his bed as he used a wayward crate as a desk. His other possessions were scattered throughout the many safehouses his Dad used, however this one managed not to have not one thing of his possessions. He set his cigarette in the ashtray, careful not to extinguish it, stomping around in order to find the loose floorboard that gave a small creak under pressure. He used his knife to pry the board away, showing his small weapon and monies cache. It was whatever he managed to collect at that particular safe house. There were a few guns, many of his butterfly knives, switchblades, daggers, throwing knives and ten grand in smart organized rolls of five hundred dollars. There were other stuff too, like blood stained Joker Cards among other things. Little souvenirs his Dad might happen to bring home. Like the bat dagger thing Dad had once brought home when it was stuck in his leg. Stuff like that. He had never told his Dad he had actually kept the little Bat- thing. Dad would go nuts if he ever found out.
He grabbed a roll, his gun and butterfly knife and jammed the floorboard back into place. He put the roll on the inside pocket of his jacket, the gun flush against his waist, tucked in the waistband of his black cargos. His butterfly knife was kept close, inside the outside pockets of his jacket for easy access. He downed the rest of the beer, chucking it in the corner before extinguishing his cigarette and heading out the door.
Okay I promised the Joker, and I forgot that I was posting smaller chapters for this story, so he is coming soon!
So how do you like Heath? Harley a.k.a Mom? What about The Voice?
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