Beautiful Disaster (Jeff the Killer) [On Hiatus]

1*

     My name is Salem Crimson. The reason behind my name is actually pretty basic, so I'll start off with that first, I guess. My mother named me Salem due to the fact that I'm supposedly descended from these Salem witches that escaped their fates of burning at the stake some centuries ago. They ran off, changed their names, fell in love, and developed a family. Do I believe that I possess the abilities of a witch? No. Do I believe in witches? Again, no.
     Now onto my last name. Crimson. As I'm sure you know, crimson is a deep shade of red. An ancestor of my father's changed his last name to Crimson, due to his eyes of the color. I don't mean, like, constant pink eye. I mean his irises were this deep, bright shade of crimson. It now runs in the family. Though it skipped my father, it reached me.

     "Salem," Mr. Owens called out for what must have been the eighth time. I turned my head to him, and he flinched once he saw my eyes, bringing forth some snickers from the students. He looks around momentarily, and the class returns to its previous state of silence. As he opens his mouth to speak, the final bell rings and I bolt for the door, my tattered backpack on my left shoulder. Within seconds, I have my phone out, my earbuds in, and I set my music to shuffle at full volume.
     "This Is How I Disappear" by My Chemical Romance begins playing, and I turn off my screen. I look down to make sure my earbuds are plugged into the jack, and I slip my phone into my back pocket. My naturally raven black hair creates a curtain around my face, and I look up to see the fair-sized group of teenagers that have been kicking me around like a stray mutt since the sixth grade, all the way up until this year--senior year.
     I quickly look down at my feet and begin taking a sharp turn to my right, as soon as "Teenagers" by My Chemical Romance starts playing. Right on time, I suppose. I peer at the group through my curtain of hair, and see that the lead slut, Whitney, is looking and pointing at me, no doubt ratting out my presence to the group. As soon as I round the corner and I'm momentarily out of their sight, I sprint for my house.
     I narrowly dodge one of Whitney's minions as he tries to grab me, the tips of his fingers barely brushing against the skin of my arm. The same guy, Charles, attempts to grab me again, and I jump out of the way in time. Just then, the chorus of the song begins playing, and I feel a rush of adrenaline. I start sprinting in the direction of my house, the others falling behind me.
     They said all teenagers scare the living shit out of me
     They could care less, as long as someone'll bleed
     So darken your clothes, or strike a violent pose
     Maybe they'll leave you alone, but not me
     By the time the song ends, I'm far ahead of where I was and about ten yards away from my house. I work on catching my breath as I pull out my key, unlock the door, and step inside. Once I stop my music, take my earbuds out, and wrap them around my phone, I turn around to lock the door back up.
     I walk through the small, one-story house, stepping on empty beer cans and kicking liquor bottles out of my path as I make my way to my room. Since my father isn't passed out on the couch like he normally is, he's either out buying even more alcohol, or he's walking around the house. As I walk through the hallway I see my bedroom door at the end of it, closed as I had left it this morning.
     I open it, throw my bag down on the floor in the corner, and sit on my bed. I stare at the wall in front of me, at the pictures that I've refused to take down for over eight years. Most of them consist of my mother and me, smiling and laughing like we haven't a care in the world. My father had taken the pictures, before everything happened. Before he--
     My thoughts are cut off as I hear my father's drunken and slurred voice boom through the house. "Get your worthless ass out here, you little harlot!" I hear some shuffling around, and heavy footfalls nearing my bedroom door. I stand and make my way towards it, and I open it. I see my father, wearing a button-up shirt, the buttons off by two or three spaces. He opens a beer bottle that I hadn't noticed he was holding before and he finishes it in only a few gulps.
     He throws the bottle aside and it lands among dozens of others with a slight clatter. He stumbles toward me with his tall frame and I fear what he will do to me today. I gulp silently, and my unspoken question is answered when he picks up a wooden baseball bat from amidst the crushed cans and empty bottles.
     He prepares to bring the bat down on me, and I don't move. I only lean slightly to the side to disable the bat from caving in my skull. The reason I don't run is because from past experience, I know that if I try to run off, he won't make my injuries so unnoticed by the public as he usually does. I close my eyes and prepare for the blow, not yet knowing where it may land.
     I bite down as the bat collides with my rib cage. It comes down again, again, and again, and each time I feel my ribs crack. By the fifth time, though, my father brings the bat down onto my back, because I'm hunched over from the several previous blows. I hear a loud snap as the sound of the bat splitting into two halves mixes with the sickening crunching noise made by my back. Luckily he didn't hit my spine like he did a few months back.
     The throws the handle of the bat onto the carpet angrily and speaks unintelligibly through his teeth. With that, he stalks off to the living room. I push myself back up, leaning on the wall as I really make my way back to my room. I manage to get myself onto the edge of my bed, and a few silent tears slide down my face as I stare at the pictures of the younger me and my dead mother. My father killed her when I was eight. That was ten years ago, and though people say that the pain becomes easier to manage over time, it feels as if it only worsens every day.

     My name is Salem Crimson. I'm eighteen years old. I'm mute. I self harm. I'm abused by my father, who murdered my mother. I need to get out. Before he does to me what he did to her--or before I do it myself.