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Once upon a time, there was a boy who grew up to become a murderer. But instead of a punishment made in the thick chains of hell, he was stuck in a place of destruction, so grey and thick hidden under the surface that even the bright colors in his eyes and around him could never quite outshine their overbearing presence. A boy, whose heart carried the spark, that would be the light set by a match to the unraveling of two, almost three lives in the process. But for now, he doesn’t see the angry faces, the smoldering anger, the potential doomed to overflow into violence, brilliance or tyranny on the rocks of the shallow sea of his future.
The way it happened shouldn't really matter. But the boy lives, and aches, in his life of grey and drudgery, too tired to change yet too angry to go on. A girl offers a hand to him and he takes it.
Just barely.
They say the touch of the home never leaves you. Even years later, when Jax is arguably as 'safe' as one can be in that digital hellhole, he still sees himself crouching behind that crumbling building, breathing haggardly, a crunch of crumbling brick underneath his foot and twisted metal digging patterns into his waist, blood dripping down his nose unto his bloody hands - he still feels it echo in his bones. The crunching sound of grass, the dirt underneath his nails that never washed off, the sound of tired joints and aching lungs laboring, hour after hour, their sighs and groans alongside the sighs and groans of force on skin. Dreaming of Home - no, not Home anymore. It was Home but that had quickly become a nightmare.
His injures even haunt him still, alongside theirs. Sometimes, he even catches himself absentmindedly swiping to stop his non-existant nosebleed.
When he was a child, he used to think of cars as a beast that could be whipped into shape from his story books, hungry for control. All it needed was guidance and a bit of degredation, just enough to obey it's master regardless of how mad he was.
That was one ray of sunshine breaking through the cloudy day that was his life, but even that small mercy was soon taken from his. Heck, now that 'Jax' thought about it, he'd only got his license for a couple days.
When the first bleeding came, the world showed that it had one more cruelty in store. One more way of devouring him. The feeling of coldness and shock circled him like a wolf, sniffing and baring it's teeth, and 'Jax' often imagined that the blood red leftover gore from the body his car had already sunken it's teeth in was merely a spilled drink on the seats or a dodgy paint job.
On the fateful night, he hadn't thought much of it as his car purred through the terrace houses and up through the woods. A sharp feeling buzzed in the air, almost in an electrical sense, although he didn't know whether that was because of the music thumping from his car radio or from his own heart. He just knew he had to get out of that godforsaken house.
Was he drunk? If he was, present 'Jax' didn't remember. If he was drunk on anything, it was probably stone cold sober spite and the high of satisfaction. He practically giggled to himself about it.
He knew these roads like the back of his hand, every ditch, every nook and crannie. He practically praised himself when he correctly waited and found he was right that after turning the corner to get up the hill, there was a little dip in the road that caused his car to fall slightly, even in the darkness.
Then there was a sudden flash. He slammed on the brakes, the car hissing to a jilted halt. Something hit him hard. It rolled over and 'Jax' saw his grip on the wheel had gone deadly pale. The headlights absolved a black mass, crumpled in the middle of the road. The radio noise faded into the background until 'Jax' found the strength to stop staring out at the crumpled heap and to switch it off.
His soul, surprisingly, horrifyingly, grabbing him, foul-smelling fingers, and smiling with canine glee laughed at him. "Look what you've done."
'Jax' gazed at the peeling wallpaper, moss green under gold-painted flowers, curling at the seams, revealing angry molden patches. Another damp spot blooms on the ceiling, stretching across the floor like a plyth on this abandoned building, which he supposed it is. Whatever, he's drenched in blood anyways, clearly no-one here would care about his choice of attire. A cracked mirror leaned against the wall, and he stared at his eflection without really seeing it. The boy who stared back didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. He'd just stood there, straight-backed, small, defeated. A ghost of a boy.
The thunder rumbled heavier outside and 'Jax' shivered. He was scared to even move, partially out of fear, but also because the floor was littered with all sorts of technology: circut boards, control sticks, headsets. All sorts of junk. It might have looked abandoned but, what if they just really had a bad budget to spend on repairs? He was drenched too, apart from his head thanks to his hat, and there was no way he was getting electronically fried like this.
Though, even despite the darkness, there was somthing colourful humming beside him that lit up half his face almost like Two-Face. He turned, seeing an open computer screen. Why on earth someone would leave that, on he had no idea why. He watched cautiously at the screen, daring himself to nervously laugh for the first time that night at the child-like colours of whatever 'game' that was on, and hesistated as he saw the computer lead straight to a cable that was attached to a headset right at his feet.
The first thing he saw were their boots, black-leather, polished. Then the gloves. The the coat, tailored and lined with something dark, expensive. The last thing he noticed made his breath hitch, his eyes widen. Their face. White, half-faced, expressionless. It gleamed in the headlight like porcelain. Like bone. For a split second, his stomach twist.
Then the terrible, delicious nothingness of his own feelings settled into him again, and he merely blinked at the newcomer like they were a puzzle he didn’t have the energy to figure out.
He didn’t look at them, not at first. That feeling inside him then, the outskirts of his soul bared with teeth, dragged him to look. In the short time that 'Jax' had been in the car, he'd picked up that there were lots of bumps on the road, hard gravel, many potholes. The dense woods either side didn't help either with seeing what was watching in the shadows.
The baring part of his soul screamed at him, talking fast, words crookedly enunciated in the shock, his eyes widened. He sounded like a vulture trying to sell a fresh corpse before the flies get too curious. Iced out eyes stare back.
Hide the body, let the animals feast
He expects them to leer, curl their mouth into an ugly, hungry smile, while he's moving them with great strength. 'Jax' could leave them here but the idea of shoving them back into the dark where he doesn't know where it leads, or who might come through it in the same direction, stops him.
So, he selfishly, leaves them at the side of the road, careful to avoid the body as he swerves the car around them, trembling fingers on the steering wheel. His one last gift to them, after robbing them of their life.
'Jax' is so scared, he almost can feel the tears stinging behind her eyes. But instead, his eyes turn livid. And he says to them, watching their body fade into the distance of his car mirror. “This is not my fault.”
The voices disagreed. Harsh hands rip the clothes off his body, throwing them away like the filthy rags, scrapping him raw with their fingernails. They told him he should be grateful no-one was around to witness his pettyless grief. They told him that he had done everything to deserve this and should take on God himself for granting him this existance. 'Jax' didn't say anything back.
In the mirror, he just looked at his face and couldn’t understand that it did belong to him and not to someone else anymore. He could still feel the hands on his scalp. His mouth stayed closed like a locked door, his eyes empty. His voice was buried somewhere beneath the steady hum of the engine, wrapped in silence. He hadn’t used it since he got here. Maybe he never would again.
'Jax' didn’t know how long he had been waiting in the car. Time seemed to creep by slowly, dripping like water from a cracked pipe. Inside, he waited. And waited. Like a package. Like a prayer someone forgot to say out loud. Like a boy who would never be more than a murderer, albeit insignificantly. Police would probably be crawling the streets, looking for him now. The sun had begun to rise a little bit over the peaks of the trees.
'Jax's' eyes round the perimiter and he almost breathes a sigh of relief when he sees a building to shelter in, with no lights on. Anything to get away from this car. Anything to not look at the greasy dent on his front bumper.
Then, the door opened. And he walked in. And time, as he knew it before, would forever by running sideways.
"What's the rush? You got someone waiting for you outside?"
"...Don't you?"
"..."