Blood in the Water

Chapter One

A/N: So this is a new story I'm working on! I originally wrote about this character briefly for a school assignment way back in eighth grade and now, a few years later, I've decided to pick back up on him. I think he just has a really important story he wants to tell :)

        And a special thanks to my 8th grade English teacher Mr. Spindle for assigning the project he did to my class, or else I never would have invented such a lovely character. I really hope you all grow to love him as much as I do.

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               The words were like sin being embedded into the very core of my heaven. I squinted angrily as my tears fell upon the seemingly endless pages. Ignoring them, I continued to carve my words into the leather bound journal I held before me. It was all I had left. The last meaningful possession I owned was now losing its purity, just like I had.

   

            I’m not sure how much more I can take of this. The buildings are filthy and run down and the people are dangerous. I can’t tell you how many kids here have guns. I've hardly even left this house--if you can even call it that--and I've already seen so many kids waving them around openly. I don’t understand why they do; if it’s to look cool then it’s a complete waste of time, that's for sure. Guns don’t do any good for anyone. Guns ruin people’s lives. They sure as hell ruined mine.

        I sighed in defeat, my whole body was shaking now. The hurt was unbearable; the pain was indescribably excruciating.

        "Why?" I whispered hoarsely. "WHY?" I slammed my fist down upon the kitchen table angrily, forming a small crack. I dropped my head in my hands before bursting out into another fit of sobs. How could he do this to us? Was this nothing but a game to him? Did we mean anything to him at all?

        "Richard?" My mother called out from the bedroom. She sounded worried. I inhaled deeply to try and calm myself and control my shuddering before answering in my normal voice.

        "Yes, mother?" I wiped my tears away agressively just before she walked in to look at me.

        "Are you alright?" Concern was ever present on her face these days. She had changed so much physically since the incident. Her usually golden blonde locks were graying slightly and her wrinkles seemed more defined with the finanical stress we were under.

        "I'm perfectly fine," I lied convincingly. "Why wouldn't I be?" I had to lie for her sake, I had to be strong for her. She sighed before her gaze locked onto mine.

        "I'm sorry this happened to you," she said softly. I couldn't help but feel my heart tie up in knots whenever she said things like this. It had to have been worse for her, she loved him. I was born into his company but she was there willingly. There was no way she didn't blame this on herself. In fact, I knew she did.

        I could hear her cry herself to sleep every night since we moved here. A small, shabby two-room apartment is all we could afford right now so we shared a bedroom. On the few nights I could sleep, the last sound I would hear every night would be the ones of her uncontrolable fits of sobs. Not that I judged her, no. I cried just as much as her, just never when she was around. It was okay for one of us to be openly broken, but we couldn't both be. I'm the man of the family now and its my job to keep my mother safe and away from harm. Although I couldn't be much of a real man at the age I am now, but I sure as hell know that I'm a better man than he could have ever been.

        "I'm sorry this happened to you," I sighed thoughtfully. "Why don't you go off to bed now? We both know how much you need your rest." She nodded reluctantly in agreement before speaking.

        "I will. But first, are you sure you're set with your supplies for tomorrow?" I exhaled loudly. Tomorrow was my first day at a new school. I was no longer able to attend my old private school now that we couldn't afford it, we even had to move from our luxurious Manhattan penthouse to this pile of dirt in the Bronx.

        "I'm fine, mother. Really." I gave her a look that told her to just drop the topic. "Now please, just go to bed." She looked at me one last time, but it wasn't just a glance, it was a thorough, longing look. Almost as if she were staring through my soul and reading everything that compiles me as a person.

"Alright. Please don't stay up too late," she cautioned. I nodded.

        "Don't worry, I won't." And with that, she was gone. My gaze flickered back to my journal. I planned on writing a bit more before bed. Picking up my ballpoint pen, I began to jot down furiously again. It was almost as if I had never stopped, the way that the flame of anger rekindled the second I grabbed hold of my pen again was so gratifying. There was just something so soothing, if you could even call it that, about writing down every thought I ever had.

        It’s been about a week since I came here. My father used to work on Wall Street; that’s right, used to...before everything happened that is. Even still it's the biggest news story nationally. He shot himself about two weeks ago. That isn't even the worst of it for me, I was also the one who found him. The economy hasn’t been doing too well and neither has the stock market. My father, being in charge was under an excessive amount of stress and anxiety after constantly being blamed for everything that went wrong with the stocks. Eventually, he just had enough and he gave up. I don't know how he could be so selfish, but he did it. Now we were nothing but bankrupt and emotionally wrung out. We could have gotten back on our feet if he didn't leave us, but that possibility doesn't matter now. He's dead. There's no one to save us this time, no one. We have to try and save ourselves now.

        I stopped momentarily, pressing the pen deep into the paper and watching as the ink oozed out like the blood from my father's skull. The ink was mesmerizing as it slowly spread throughout a small section of my paper like a disease, like a deadly enfatuation. One like my father had. As I wrote, my left hand was always balled in a fist. Shuddering at the horrible memories coming back to me, I clenched my fist tighter, digging my nails into the flesh of my palms.

        An instant pang of anger and hatred surged through me, making me scribble down words once more.

        And as if things couldn’t be any worse, no one is even helping us. Our entire family disregards us and considers us as a disgrace to the Garrison name. They want absolutely nothing to do with my mother and me. It’s not like we’re the ones who screwed up and ruined this family. We aren’t doing very well without him. My mother came from a rich family and she’s never worked a day in her life and I can’t get a legitimate job because I’m only fifteen. My father was the supporter of our family. We were doing much more than well, we had millions of dollars. We still have it too, but it’s not a seemingly endless amount as it had appeared to be before. It isn’t like that anymore though, not at all. Things are different now. I know I need to accept what happened and move on, but I just can’t.

        Another tear fell upon the pages of my journal, but I didn't wipe my eyes this time. I stared at the words I had written as my eyes blurred in and out of focus. I was hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion and I forced myself up to get to bed. I stretched and then pushed in my chair before snatching up my journal and pen from the table and tucking them both under my pillow. I place them both there every night, unable to sleep without them.