youngblood // p. hockstetter // 0.1

//twenty-seven

•••

If there was one thing Rosemary had learnt since she'd begun attending Summer School was that the school itself was Hell on Earth. Though that being said, she was still fortunate she only had to attend for three hours a day. Mondays, Thursdays and Fridays she attended from eight-thirty to eleven-thirty. Tuesdays and Wednesdays she'd attend from one to four, and it was these days that she found herself wanting to jump head first into oncoming traffic.

The biggest dilemma of her Summer schooling however, was the combined presence of Henry Bowers and Patrick Hockstetter in her Mathematics class. Having failed Mathematic, Social Studies and English, Henry attended Summer school for most of the day, all week. As well as that, he still hated Rosemary with a passion that surpassed simple hatred and boiled his blood every time he saw her.

Patrick was different. He studied her and the way she acted because there was no denying the fact she acted differently in comparison to her last day of school. "She's quieter" Henry had stated as they sat in Belch's car outside of Victor's apartment. "Now that she's with a bunch of faggots she's not talking"

It was true, and Patrick finally realised the situation and motive Rosemary possessed when she pulled him in the night she murdered Mark. He came to this realisation whilst in the hazardous mess of his room, his hand slid down his boxers as he jerked himself off to the image of Rosemary's mouth around his pecker. He'd stopped just as his pelvis was starting to squirm and sat up, eyes wide.

Rosemary was a user, it was what she did.

She used Gretta for her loyalty. She used her brothers and friends for protection. She used Henry until he proved a threat and even now she still had a hold on both Henry and himself because Henry still wasted time thinking about her and Patrick was thinking of nothing else but her in that moment. Rosemary had used him to dispose of the corpse she created.

The only thing he couldn't understand was why? Why had she killed Mark?

He pondered this for well over an hour, his mind concocting every possible situation his sick mind could imagine.

But of course, his male mind couldn't even begin to understand the complex inner workings of a highly functional female psychopath.

Still clad in his boxers, Patrick made his way downstairs to do something he never thought he'd find himself doing; consulting his parents. Running his hand up his acne dotted forehead and through his hair, he glanced briefly at his father whom sat in the lounge as his feet hit the uncomfortably cold steps of the staircase.

"Patrick?" His mother whom had been wiping a plate stopped all actions as she stared at her son in shock. "Honey, what's wrong?"

Mr and Mrs.Hockstetter had long since acknowledged the undeniable fact that their only remaining son was an exceptionally disturbed individual. They hated Henry and his group, but they where also the only social interaction they ever saw Patrick achieve beyond his teachers. He didn't speak to them if he could help it. They rarely saw him inside the house and although they didn't approve of his behaviour, they didn't stop him.

They where smart enough to know they couldn't stop him.

"Nothing's wrong" Patrick stated with a lack of emotion she'd grown used too. Standing on the lower steps of the staircase, Patrick leant against the bannister as he scratched his jaw in thought. "Why-" He stopped himself, trying to phrase his question correctly. "Why might a girl..." The moment the word 'girl' slipped from his lips he wanted to suck it in and whack himself over the head as his father turned off the television from the opposite room.

"You're asking me about a girl?" Mrs.Hockstetter asked enthusiastically, hastily placing the plate down as she approached her son. "What is it dear? Do you like a girl?"