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11 YEARS AGO

B lood seeped from torn flesh, turning black in the rain as it slid down my face, spilling toward the gutter in filthy streams. It mixed with stormwater and grit, disappearing into darkness. Whatever didn't wash away marked the soaked pavement—thin, oily lines catching flashes of light from the buzzing streetlamps overhead.

If only the rain could scrub away more than blood.

My hands didn't shake. Not even a tremor. Like my mind hadn't caught up with what I'd done. People claimed guilt rattled your chest.

But I felt nothing.

My tongue brushed against iron. No sting. Pain wasn't something I registered.

Sirens wailed somewhere down the block. Their howling joined the aftermath—cracked bones, gasps for mercy, and the emptiness that followed. The price of Mother's love.

I ripped my eyes from the rust-tinged puddle and studied the house I'd shared with her—white fence, pastel flowers, red bricks slick with runoff. All a lie.

Those walls smothered every shriek that ever clawed its way out of me, burying the truth in silence—my first mask, forced onto me before I could speak. Fresh blood threaded its iron tang through rooms built for silence. That pristine border and manicured lawn sold the illusion, while inside, bricks drank wails and floorboards groaned beneath the weight of everything this house would take to its grave.

I stared at the house that caged me for ten years. Shadows slithered across my bedroom floor at night. Footsteps and whispers meant survival, never sleep. Tonight, I'd painted those walls with their insides—repayment for every stifled cry and broken bone. Would it burn by dawn? Should I strike the match and erase it myself? But the night swallowed the fire that I didn't get to light.

"Where the hell's your momma?" A man's voice rasped through the rain, hard as gravel.

I kept my eyes on the house, letting rain pelt me. At least it was proof I hadn't died with them.

The man tried again, voice cutting through the downpour. "Where's your momma?"

For an instant, I remembered her expression—face twisted into something unrecognizable, eyes blown wide with terror, mouth forming a perfect circle. Then she vanished. I stood motionless, blood cooling on my hands, counting seconds that turned into minutes, waiting for Mother's footsteps to return.

But they never did.

She had always watched, never intervened. Not when I was the victim. Not even when I became the monster.

Would I ever find someone who'd see the monster I was becoming and still choose to stay?

I turned toward the voice. Two men stood beneath a sputtering streetlight. The first had thick arms, denim soaked to his frame, leather vest worn with scars and patches. A single embroidered word rose over his heart.

President.

The second man stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him, matching his size and age. His face was kinder—laugh lines framing his eyes instead of the deep creases from constant scowling. Despite his softer features, I didn't believe in him. Trust wasn't what I needed right now—freedom was.

My bat rested heavy in my palm, worn grooves pressing into my skin. Bodies had fallen by it tonight—two more wouldn't faze me. That familiar hollow churned in my gut. The only thing I'd ever known.

The President lifted his hands. His boot landed in a puddle, and I raised the bat in warning.

The quieter one stayed a step behind, watching. His mouth twitched like he wanted to speak but thought better of it. Two against one meant I'd have to choose who died first.

"Easy now. We didn't come to hurt ya," the President said, teeth gleaming like bones in a grave. His eyes held something I'd never seen—not pity, not fear. "We're here to save you."

Save me? My head tipped. Rain slithered down my neck. Another lie, right?

Sirens crept closer, the rain’s reflection bleeding red and blue into the gutter. The President glanced behind him. "Choose now, boy. You've already bled for the devil. Question is, you leaving with him?"

Lightning split across his face, casting it in jagged black and white. Another minute and the cops would be here, locking me behind bars. The rain was the first thing that felt free, and I'd be damned if I let them take it.

My shoulders twitched, restless. One thought bled through the haze. Am I trading one Hell for another?

The President turned away, water tracking down his vest. The softer-eyed one gestured for me to follow. I calculated threat levels even as I fell into step behind them. My bare feet slapped pavement, puddles splashing my calves.

Free. A body that didn't know pain had finally slipped its chains.

The world could collapse, and I'd stand in the wreckage unshaken, breathing without swallowing fear. Blood and rain churned in my veins as I settled into a slow run.

Behind us, voices rose, muffled by the storm. Red and blue lights flashed frantically across the bricks, shadows dancing across warped surfaces.

Thick fingers tangled in my greasy hair, yanking my head back until my neck cracked. My eyes locked onto the President's—gunmetal gray, unreadable. The gentler one stood back, watching, his expression tightening slightly but making no move to intervene.

"Never look back at what destroyed you." He twisted my head until my spine groaned. His attention dropped to my mouth. I hadn't realized I'd been covering it—an old habit I'd yet to break. The President's eyes narrowed, something cold flickering behind them.

He reached into his vest pocket, pulling out a black surgical mask. The fabric looked pristine against his dirt-stained fingers.

"From this moment on, you rule your own Hell. Not them," he said, holding it out to me.

The mask felt cool and strange beneath my fingers. I pulled it over my face. It fit too well—like it had been waiting for me.

Shouts tore through the rain as officers discovered my handiwork. We didn't look back. Our footsteps fell into rhythm—mine matching theirs.

Ruler of my own Hell.

I'd been nothing for years. Just watched while they took what wasn't theirs. Tonight, I'd ended them, drowning their cruelty in blood and runoff. Whatever this was, it didn't feel like the end—it felt like a beginning.

A storefront window caught my reflection as we passed—lanky frame, hollow cheeks, black hair plastered to my skull, eyes sunken like graves above the mask shrouding half my features. Barely fifteen, yet I looked ancient.

It had been five years since I'd recognized myself.

Lightning fractured the sky. Something snarled deep in my gut—dark, inviting, nameless—and I welcomed it. Thunder roared, promising chaos yet to unfold. My pulse quickened—the only time it ever did—at the thought of what came next. A vow twisted through my veins, sharp and unforgiving.

They wanted a monster?

My eyes remained fixed on the storm, clouds swallowing stars whole. I'd dissect their souls while they still breathed, forced them to consume pieces of themselves just to understand the look in their eyes when they realized what they'd become. Their screams would be my lullaby, their tears my baptism. I wanted to wear their faces as I slept—just to remember what it felt like to be human.

I'd touched the place it should be, searching for proof I was more than emptiness. A heart should beat there, race in fear, pound with rage—but I'd never felt its rhythm.

Where my heart should be, there was only a ghost—a boy who died long before the killing began.