(UNDER SERIOUS RECONSTRUCTION) Troubled Love(TicciMask)

Pilot (improved)

(A/N: let me know if you like this one better than the first person, I'll change the rest of them if all of you want)

Toby hit the ground running, bolting out of his burning street. The hatchets he'd taken from his parent's garage bounced in their guards around his thin waist as he gunned it as fast as he could. The taunting voices echoed in the twitching boy's head, the only thing he could still hear over the sound of the roaring flames closing in around him.

"This is your fault, Toby!"

"Your mother is most likely dead because of you! What would Dear old Dad think about this? After all, he'd done for you; you thank him by slaughtering him like cattle? And how the hell did you even manage to set off the gas vein under your house? I mean, how unlucky can you get?" One of the many voices ridiculed, a broken image of the recent memory plastering itself to his amygdala, the image and burning scent of the torched buildings and their residents.

The gas had spread quickly throughout the street; it only took the flick of a light switch and the breaking of a bulb to ignite the gas before nearly everything had been consumed. The sounds too stuck in Toby's head, drilling themselves into his ears to ensure he wouldn't be able to forget. The loud crackling of the fire, the barely audible sounds of families crying outside their homes from the pain as they tried to escape the scorching heat. Women and children screamed, fire engines wailing sorrowfully for the losses. Shattering glass and creaking of wood, even the collapsing of entire floors and staircases, dug themselves deep into the brunets cerebellum.

"Psycho!"
"Creep!"
"Ticking, twitching freak!"
"Waste of space!"
"Ungrateful!"
"Disgrace!"
"Bastard of a son!"

"No, you're wrong! You're all wrong!" Toby yelled, clutching the sides of his head with clenched fists full of the frizzy bed-head hair he sported. The thick black clouds of ash and debris floated through the air into his lungs, causing the teen to release a wheezy cough. His head spun, filled with overlapping voices, his tics somewhat slowing him down though he pushed forward to get away.

The teen looked back for a moment toward his house, releasing a choked gasp when he did. It was swallowed just like everything else on the street had been, now was the perfect opportunity; there wouldn't be another like it. He ran, but his feet felt heavy with an immeasurable weight, the weight of the guilt he now carried. Toby was able to escape, but what of his mother? She was the only one left alive in the house when he fled, though watching as the flames ate everything up, he wasn't sure even she was alive any longer. He could have given her a quick and painless death! No, he couldn't. He didn't have the guts nor the drive to kill her. Even with her discovery of her teenage son crouching bloody over the fresh corpse of her husband, he couldn't do it, even with the fear in her eyes as she had looked at him as if she were to disclaim him as her child. Even then, he couldn't bring himself to lay a finger on her. The only thing he could think to do was flee before he was caught by anyone else. And so he did.

"S-Shit!" He exclaimed sharply, his tics increasingly becoming more problematic under the pressure of the situation. He finally managed to let go of his mop of hair, allowing him to use his arms to run faster. The teen pushed on, his legs burning with every forward stride.

The brunette swore under his breath as he ran, his increasingly occurring tics slowing him down.
'I need to get out of here!' He thought to himself, bounding down the street as fast as his body would allow, a loud ringing sounding in his ears. One that he'd heard the night he'd seen that strange being outside his window. The noise grew annoying enough to make the teen whip around; something caught his eye. He glared at the faceless being standing tall across the street. The flames didn't even seem to bother it.