Jeff, A Killer? Or A Lover?

Chapter 1: Pain or Gain?

Jeff's P.O.V.

         "STOP! JUST FUCKING STOP!" I pulled at my hair wishing the pain would end, the harsh thrashing stabs of pain through my temples. It pounded through my head like a bass through a speaker, the pain deafening. I fell to my knees with a small choked gasp, the pain was finally gone and I blinked a few times inhaling deeply.

          Crawling to my hands and knees I pushed myself up, my breathing staggered and shaky. I stood leaning against the wall my knees shaking. I was standing in nothing but boxers in my dark bedroom. My eyes teared up as I slid down the wall holding myself in a solitary hug, my arms covering my scarred bare chest.

          Tears rolled down my scarred cheeks and dripped off my chin as I silently cried. My long black hair fell down over my naked shoulders in messy tangles. My shoulders shook as I held my head in my hands, tears running rapidly down my face. Blood dotted the palms of my hands where my nails stabbed into them.

          Soon I stood with a shaky breathe, my eyes red and damp from tears and my face now hardened and serious.

          "Pathetic! How pathetic! Weeping like a teenage girl!" I spat out with an angered growl.

          With a long sigh I pulled on a pair of black skinny jeans and black leather boots before rooting around and finding my white hoody stained in blood. I quickly grabbed my knife and slid the window open, deeply inhaling the cool scent of the night air as the moon shone brightly over the sleeping earth.

          Quietly I slipped out into the night, a large smile plastered across my face.

Alex's P.O.V.

          I arrived home late, the lights of the house all turned off.

          'As usual' I thought bitterly, 'They never care'

          My mother is 36, my father 37, I'm 17. They never meant to have me. I was a drunken accident. So what right? They love me and care for me like I was planned? No. They hate me. Treat me like a pest and don't want me bothering them. My father makes ALOT of money yet we live in an old, very large old Victorian house that looks like it belonged in Transylvania. But I loved it. My parents give me money, a decent amount to, and leave me to my own devices.

          My mother and father don't starve me, but they don't care if I eat or not. They don't give me drugs, but they don't yell or punish me when I do them. They don't buy me alcohol, but they don't give a flying fuck if I drink till I'm wasted. They bought me a black Ford Excursion and pay for gas, but only because they don't want me around the house all the time. Even though they're rarely home.

          And the worse part? I still love them. I love them so much that I hate them. I want them dead and gone, yet when I think of it I tear up and my heart aches. I always think back to when I was a small child and my mother smiled and cared for me. That is, until I turned 8.

          I sighed turning off the engine and grabbing my bag from the passenger seat, locking the doors as I stepped down onto the gravel driveway. My truck was the only vehicle in the driveway as I looked up and pressed a button on my keychain closing the black iron gate. Our property as large and surrounded by a huge stone wall and forest after that, our neighbours not far off, only a little more than 100 feet past the wall, yet they never talk to us.

          Trudging up the front porch steps I pulled out my key and unlocked the door stepping in and relocking it. I strolled into the kitchen and grabbed a beer before jogging up to my first floor and locking my door. My room was on the top floor, 4 stories up. Mum and dad only used the first two floors so I got the other 3 If you count the attic. The attic was my study. The next floor down was my bedroom, my extra bathroom, my guest room, my closet, my library, another guest room, my work out room/ gym, and lastly my gallery where I keep all my works (paintings, CD's I've sang and recorded, poems and short stories I've wrote). The next floor down was my living room, my kitchen, my pantry, a dining room, my laundry room, and a bathroom. The top floors, mine, was closed off by a lockable door.