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- Joined
- May 2, 2010
- Location
- Florida
Stony eyes stared out at the lifeless water, his heart unaffected by everything that had gone on around him. His head held high in defiance and anger at the cold heartless world he lived in. He could care less what they thought of him, they were mindless drones, doomed to follow a mindless society. He was the one who sat on the bleachers in front of the pool and smoked while classes went on in the prison-like institution around him. He was detached from the world, one that had shunned him for so long. He never felt love, only hate. Baggy jeans hung loosely on his hips, and a plain white tee shirt clung to a muscular torso, massive biceps hidden under a black leather jacket with patches and buttons placed haphazardly all over it.
His cold grey eyes examined the area around him. Bodies strewn around him in unnatural positions. The gun lying next to him in the hands of the killer, and his best friend. That was the only reason heâd survived this massacre, the one miracle that had kept him alive. But he didnât believe in miracles, he didnât believe in a god. But this didnât mean he was evil, no, just misunderstood. Heâd been given a biblical name, but he preferred to be called by his middle name, a name his father had chosen for him.
He stood up and saw that the pool was filling with blood, turning the glistening clear water, a pale red. He looked out the massive windows and saw that dark clouds had rolled in the hour it took Jeremiah to go on this killing spree. Jeremiah was his best friend, but somehow in the time theyâd spent together he wouldâve never been able to foresee this from Jeremiah. Though, at that same time, it didnât surprise him. Jeremiah had only one friend, and that was him. Other than him, everyone made fun of Jeremiah, and treated him horribly. Jeremiah had been verbally and physically abused throughout school, the worst this year, their junior year.
He looked at all the bodies, nearly thirty in total; they had a very small school. Blood was fresh on the walls and floors. Heâd watched Jeremiah kill the entire school, and then kill himself. Everyone bled the same, but you couldnât convince them of that. They thought Jeremiah just took the beatings and harassing in stride, that it didnât bother him. But he had spent many nights holding Jeremiah while he cried and telling him everything would change for the better. Heâd talked more than once about suicide, but never about killing them. If it hadnât been for him, Jeremiah wouldâve been dead a long time ago.
He heard a faint cough and his head jerked toward the noise. Someone was still alive. The noise was one of them, the ones who always made fun of Jeremiah and beat him. Jael, she may have been a girl, but she was probably the worst. But there was no hope for her. But he had made sure she wasnât going to die quick and painlessly, he wanted it to be long, drawn out, and as painful as possible. He wanted her to feel all the pain that heâd felt throughout school, all the teasing, and all the beatings. He wanted her to feel it all. He shot her many times in the legs; they were almost unrecognizable as human. They were burned and torn from the bullets. She was bleeding out slowly. Jeremiah seemed to have used the remainder of his bullets on her, all but one. The one heâd used to kill himself. She would bleed out soon, but sheâd been there for nearly an hour.
He walked over to her, and he could see fear in Jaelâs eyes. He pulled out his knife. Even though sheâd always treated him and Jeremiah horribly, he couldnât stand idly by as she suffered.
âDonât worry, Iâm going to help you,â he said softly as he leaned down to her and slit her throat. She died quickly after that. She didnât suffer.
But her pale blue eyes still stared at him, lifeless and cold. He gingerly closed her eyelids as she slipped into a peaceful death. Hopefully they could restore her throat to look normal enough to have an open casket; heâd be attending so many funerals soon. Some for those he knew, and hated. And for those he didnât, and despised. He walked along the halls, fresh blood coating the floors and walls, and he could see through the doors the flashing blue lights. The cops were here already. He knew because of the blood heâd be accused. But that could be attributed to cradling his best friend against his chest as he died. This memory, the one that took place not an hour ago, brought tears to his eyes. But he didnât cry. And never would. Because this was what Jeremiah wanted.
He took out a package of cigarettes and opened it, drew one out and letting it slide into place between his rough, cracked fingers. He placed it to his chapped lips and took a drag from it. As his smoky mistress filled his lungs, he couldnât help but feel the relief fill him. Heâd been smoking for six years, ever since he was eleven. Heâd never thought about quitting, so he never did, probably never would. He took a few drags, letting the cancer causing smoke fill his already black lungs. He took one step out of the school doors and was met by the police.
âFreeze!â The cop shouted.
He kept walking; he didnât say a word. He held his cold defiance as the police threatened him. They continued saying freeze and then one of them pulled his gun.
âIf you donât stop, weâll shoot!â the elder looking one said.
âIâve seen enough shooting today,â he said. He turned to face them, his eyes a stony grey, which stood out even more because of his shaggy coal black hair. âThe boy who killed everyone is by the pool. He killed himself.â
âCome on, son. Weâll need to take you in for questioning,â the younger officer said.
They sent in three or four cops to survey the scene, while the youngest and oldest looking on took him down to the station to question him. The ride to the station was quiet, other than the rattling of the loose bars on the windows, and a putting of the engine. The car had to have been made in the 1800s. When they finally arrived at the station, they sat him down and began questioning him.
âWhatâs your name?â the younger one asked.
âDemon,â he replied, as he looked around at the drab grey walls of the interrogation room. The table in front of him was a smooth, dark wood, probably cherry wood if he had to guess. But he could almost see his reflection in it, a great contrast to the rest of the dull, dingy little room. He could see cobwebs still hanging in the corners; they obviously didnât clean very well, or that often.
âFull name, no nicknames,â the older officer said.
âMalachi Damien Sydal,â he said, âbut my friends call me Demon!â
âNow, Malachi, tell us what happened,â the younger officer said.
âI donât know, I was skipping,â Malachi said, âAll I know is I heard the girls screaming, probably some of the guys, too.â
âDonât give me that. Tell us what happened!â the older officer said angrily. The manâs facial expression told years of tales, stories of heroism and daring. His stern, wrinkled features, cold and callous, as his deep chocolate eyes stared at Malachi, sizing him up.
âFine. I gave Jeremiah a ride to school, as always. His bag seemed a bit bigger, but I didnât ask about it. When we arrived to school, I asked Jeremiah if he wanted to go to the pool and have smoke like always. But he said heâd had one before I picked him up. So I went out to the pool and had a smoke. I heard the screaming and I ran inside. By the time I came in, half the school was dead, and Jeremiahâs clothes were covered in blood. I asked him what happened and thatâs when he turned around, when I saw the gun. He said he couldnât take it anymore, that he had to make them pay. I couldnât watch, and I didnât want to be killed myself, so I went back out to the bleachers. He came outside half an hour later. Thatâs when he put the gun to his temple, and I begged him not to. I pleaded with him, praying that he wouldnât. But he said heâd never survive in jail. So he pulled the trigger, and he fell to the ground. But before he did it, he whispered that he loved me, we, weâre like brothers. As he fell to the ground I ran over, I couldnât help it. I shook him and pleaded for him to wake up. But he wouldnât, and I know he wouldnât. But I had to try,â Malachi explained in detail.
Both officers were shocked that he could remember it so well.
âHow old are you, Malachi?â the younger officer asked. The young manâs facial expression soft and kind, unlike his fellow officer, whose facial features were rough. The wrinkles outlined years in this business, years that left his body nearly crippled, and his heart cold and icy.
âSeventeen,â Malachi said. âIâm a junior.â Malachiâs face said that he could care less as he listened to the officerâs interrogation. He tried to pay attention, but he just couldnât. His mind wanders to all the things that had happened in the past two hours. His life had spiraled into a living hell that he wasnât likely to escape.
âIs that how old Jeremiah was too?â He asked again.
âYeah, our birthdays are two week apart,â Malachi said. âWe usually did stuff together for our birthdays. That way we didnât have to pay twice as much.â
âWas Jeremiah also a junior?â The elder officer asked.
âYeah, he was. We were going to graduate together and get out of this hell hole,â Malachi said angrily as he thought of his best friend, âbut they pushed him too far! They werenât the ones staying up late into the night bandaging his cuts and holding him while he cried!â
âCome on, son, weâll take you home so you can calm down and weâll talk some more another day,â the younger officer âOfficer Lewisâ said kindly.
He escorted Malachi out to the cop car and let him sit in the front seat.
âWhat about my car? I have to have my car. Take me to the school so I can get my car,â Malachi said.
Malachi loved his car; it had cost him nearly two years worth of saving to fix it up and make it drivable. Now he only took it to school, home, and the bar. Malachi wasnât exactly shy, not like Jeremiah. Jeremiah had always been shy, but Malachi was never shy, he was the more social of the pair. And thatâs what they were. If they picked Malachi for something during gym, then theyâd also have to pick Jeremiah. Being an amazingly talented athlete, though hidden, Malachi was always one of the first picks.
âWell, youâll have to get your parents to drive you back to the school. You could have PTSD, so I canât leave you alone until youâre home,â Officer Lewis stated.
Malachi growled and began smoking another cigarette.
âYou know, smoking is bad for your health,â Officer Lewis laughed.
âI donât care. I could stop, but I donât want to,â Malachi said angrily.
âI was joking kid, I smoke, too,â Officer Lewis joked as he lit up a cigarette of his own.
âThey let you?â Malachi asked referring to the police station.
âNot much they can do, besides, most of us smoke. Just a habit we picked up off each other. I didnât start till I became a cop,â Officer Lewis said.
âI started when I was eleven,â Malachi said.
âWow, you been at it along time then,â Officer Lewis said.
âYeah,â Malachi replied.
Malachi was home soon after; glad heâd no longer had to deal with the interrogating. He wouldnât be going back in there and they couldnât make him, heâd given them his statement. A week or so later Malachi was enrolled at a new school, one in the same county, but ways away. Hoping that he would forget everything that had happened. But as he looked up at the night sky, a blanket of coal over a baby blue sky, he couldnât forget.
As he walked through the doors of his new school, Malachi could already hear the whispers.
âThey say heâs the only one who survived.â
âEveryone in the school was killed but him! Even the teachers!â
âI heard he was friends with that psycho who did it!â
Malachi just kept walking, trying not to show the pain that stabbed at his back like a thousand knives. They didnât have enough guts to say what they wanted to his face. A new school and more people to call him a punk, scum, good for nothing. But this he had accustomed to. His mother died during his birth and his father had never really forgiven him for it. But Malachi dealt with it with a cold heart and stony expression.
His eyes darted through the halls, seeking a way to escape his new prison so he could satisfy his addiction. He saw a door which led outside. He opened the door and went out to the bleachers and took out his cigarettes. He lit his first one and let out a sigh, he was already starting to feel better. But nothing could replace the gap in his heart that had been left by his best friend killing himself. He laid back on his back and closed his eyes, hoping he may finally be able to sleep for a few minutes, something heâd been lacking since the shooting. But just like every other time he tried to sleep he saw the moment that Jeremiah killed himself. His eyes shot open and just remained in his laid back position.
He nonchalantly laid his arm over his eyes to block the bright sunlight from his sensitive slate eyes. He wanted some relief from the constant torture that plagued him, the sight of his best friend, dead on the ground, his baby blue eyes not dancing like they used to, glazed over. Maybe if he didnât close his eyes he wouldnât see it, but knowing his luck this wouldnât be true. He didnât know how long he laid there, but he eventually made himself relax. He sighed and let the sun warm his skin, despite the noticeable chill that lingered in the air that had seemed to be present all through the area since that day.
Heâd been lucky⦠his dad hadnât been home since the day of the shooting. If he had been, he wouldâve been worse for wear. He certainly wouldnât have been at his new school. He hated school; he had ever since he saw how cruel kids could be, not that they were ever cruel to him. They were far too scared of him for that. They hadnât given Jeremiah a beating in months till the day before the shooting. Because Malachi had made them pay the last couple times. But then, the day before the shooting, was worse than ever. Jeremiah had to have his jaw wired shut because of those scum. Malachi had to watch him cry, because it hurt so much and they couldnât give him any more of the pain killers, any more and he would overdose.
Malachi sat up, running his fingers through his shaggy black hair. He didnât know how long heâd been lying outside. Heâd somewhat drifted off in the time it took to stop thinking about Jeremiah. He hated to think that his best friend was gone. The person heâd grown up with and heâd never seen it coming. Pain shot through him to think he knew his best friend that little that he couldnât have seen this coming. If he had seen it coming, he mightâve been able to stop it. He felt almost guilty for not being able to tell. He hated this feeling, and wanted it gone, but he didnât know how. He stood from the bleachers and sighed. He couldnât take this anymore. The guilt weighed on him like the weight of the world on his shoulders; he was strong, but not this strong. He was tired and felt like the Earth was bearing down on his shoulders. He stumbled his way to his car, heed gone to pick is up in the days following the shooting. He climbed into the 1959 Triumph TR3. Not even thinking about climbing into his precious car, that he'd spent so long fixing. Countless hours of time under the hood and in the garage fixing up the beat up old car to make it shine like it was new. He just drove, almost muscle memory now to drive to his run down old apartment building.
He looked up at his "home". The building was beaten up and rundown. Most of the windows were smashed in and boarded up. The concrete steps were eroded by time and use. The rusted metal railing cried out for help every time a hand rested on the rough surface. He hated to call this old place home. Cobwebs hung from every corner and crevice. He walked up steps into the building before hearing an all too familiar sound. That beat up truck was sounding worse and worse every day, but his dad wouldn't let him fix it. Malachi was a genius mechanic, and his dad was a drunk. Malachi tried to hurry up the stairs without his dad seeing him, but he was too late.
"Well, well, well, look who's decided to come home," the older man mumbled, slurring his words together.
"I've been home dad, you're drunk again...." Malachi said softly.
Christian Sydal had a wicked temper when sober, but when he was drunk. Things went from bad to worse. He was a former army private who was kicked out for his drinking habits. Malachi tried his best to avoid that temper that had forced Christian into so many bar fights. It didn't matter how much Malachi avoided it. He was his dad's personal punching bag. Malachi shook his head and tried to walk away but Christian roughly grabbed hold of his son's loose leather jacket, slamming him into the wall of the steps. The rusty railing jamming into his back, causing him to cry out. He swallowed and looked at his dad.
"Don't you walk away from me, punk!" Christian growled.
"Dad, stop! You're drunk, just go back to the apartment and get some sleepâ¦." Malachi pleaded with his father. His eyes full of fear. If there was one man that Malachi truly feared, it was his father.
"You wishâ¦" Christian slurred. He dropped one hand from Malachi's collar and reeled back, punching Malachi in the jaw, causing his head to bounce off the disintegrating concrete wall behind him. Christian grabbed Malachi's raven black hair and slammed him down onto the steps. "I wouldn't come back to the apartment if I were youâ¦"
Malachi tried not to let it show, but he wanted to cry. He picked himself up off the steps as his dad walked away. He walked flight up the stairs and made a left, not going to his own apartment, but Jeremiahâs. He lifted his key ring and went straight to the key Jeremiah had given him years ago. He unlocked the door, before making his way inside. He opened to door of Jeremiahâs room, Marilyn Manson posters hanging on the walls, along with Slipknot and Disturbed. Malachi couldnât help but smile a bit. He also looked at the plethora of guns lying around. He looking at one in particular. The gun Jeremiah had used tried to use years ago to kill himself. A simple nine millimeter semi automatic handgun. Malachi picked it up off of the bed, looking at the shining chrome exterior.
âWho would really miss me?â Malachi thought to himself. âMomâs dead, Jeremiah is gone, Dad hates meâ¦I have nothing to live for. What would it matter?â
Malachi opened the clip, a full magazine. He took out all but one. He let the cold steel touch his temple, thinking of only Jeremiah.
âI love you, Jeremiah. Iâll see you soon,â he whispered before the gun went off. Sending him to meet Jeremiah again, in the afterlife.
His cold grey eyes examined the area around him. Bodies strewn around him in unnatural positions. The gun lying next to him in the hands of the killer, and his best friend. That was the only reason heâd survived this massacre, the one miracle that had kept him alive. But he didnât believe in miracles, he didnât believe in a god. But this didnât mean he was evil, no, just misunderstood. Heâd been given a biblical name, but he preferred to be called by his middle name, a name his father had chosen for him.
He stood up and saw that the pool was filling with blood, turning the glistening clear water, a pale red. He looked out the massive windows and saw that dark clouds had rolled in the hour it took Jeremiah to go on this killing spree. Jeremiah was his best friend, but somehow in the time theyâd spent together he wouldâve never been able to foresee this from Jeremiah. Though, at that same time, it didnât surprise him. Jeremiah had only one friend, and that was him. Other than him, everyone made fun of Jeremiah, and treated him horribly. Jeremiah had been verbally and physically abused throughout school, the worst this year, their junior year.
He looked at all the bodies, nearly thirty in total; they had a very small school. Blood was fresh on the walls and floors. Heâd watched Jeremiah kill the entire school, and then kill himself. Everyone bled the same, but you couldnât convince them of that. They thought Jeremiah just took the beatings and harassing in stride, that it didnât bother him. But he had spent many nights holding Jeremiah while he cried and telling him everything would change for the better. Heâd talked more than once about suicide, but never about killing them. If it hadnât been for him, Jeremiah wouldâve been dead a long time ago.
He heard a faint cough and his head jerked toward the noise. Someone was still alive. The noise was one of them, the ones who always made fun of Jeremiah and beat him. Jael, she may have been a girl, but she was probably the worst. But there was no hope for her. But he had made sure she wasnât going to die quick and painlessly, he wanted it to be long, drawn out, and as painful as possible. He wanted her to feel all the pain that heâd felt throughout school, all the teasing, and all the beatings. He wanted her to feel it all. He shot her many times in the legs; they were almost unrecognizable as human. They were burned and torn from the bullets. She was bleeding out slowly. Jeremiah seemed to have used the remainder of his bullets on her, all but one. The one heâd used to kill himself. She would bleed out soon, but sheâd been there for nearly an hour.
He walked over to her, and he could see fear in Jaelâs eyes. He pulled out his knife. Even though sheâd always treated him and Jeremiah horribly, he couldnât stand idly by as she suffered.
âDonât worry, Iâm going to help you,â he said softly as he leaned down to her and slit her throat. She died quickly after that. She didnât suffer.
But her pale blue eyes still stared at him, lifeless and cold. He gingerly closed her eyelids as she slipped into a peaceful death. Hopefully they could restore her throat to look normal enough to have an open casket; heâd be attending so many funerals soon. Some for those he knew, and hated. And for those he didnât, and despised. He walked along the halls, fresh blood coating the floors and walls, and he could see through the doors the flashing blue lights. The cops were here already. He knew because of the blood heâd be accused. But that could be attributed to cradling his best friend against his chest as he died. This memory, the one that took place not an hour ago, brought tears to his eyes. But he didnât cry. And never would. Because this was what Jeremiah wanted.
He took out a package of cigarettes and opened it, drew one out and letting it slide into place between his rough, cracked fingers. He placed it to his chapped lips and took a drag from it. As his smoky mistress filled his lungs, he couldnât help but feel the relief fill him. Heâd been smoking for six years, ever since he was eleven. Heâd never thought about quitting, so he never did, probably never would. He took a few drags, letting the cancer causing smoke fill his already black lungs. He took one step out of the school doors and was met by the police.
âFreeze!â The cop shouted.
He kept walking; he didnât say a word. He held his cold defiance as the police threatened him. They continued saying freeze and then one of them pulled his gun.
âIf you donât stop, weâll shoot!â the elder looking one said.
âIâve seen enough shooting today,â he said. He turned to face them, his eyes a stony grey, which stood out even more because of his shaggy coal black hair. âThe boy who killed everyone is by the pool. He killed himself.â
âCome on, son. Weâll need to take you in for questioning,â the younger officer said.
They sent in three or four cops to survey the scene, while the youngest and oldest looking on took him down to the station to question him. The ride to the station was quiet, other than the rattling of the loose bars on the windows, and a putting of the engine. The car had to have been made in the 1800s. When they finally arrived at the station, they sat him down and began questioning him.
âWhatâs your name?â the younger one asked.
âDemon,â he replied, as he looked around at the drab grey walls of the interrogation room. The table in front of him was a smooth, dark wood, probably cherry wood if he had to guess. But he could almost see his reflection in it, a great contrast to the rest of the dull, dingy little room. He could see cobwebs still hanging in the corners; they obviously didnât clean very well, or that often.
âFull name, no nicknames,â the older officer said.
âMalachi Damien Sydal,â he said, âbut my friends call me Demon!â
âNow, Malachi, tell us what happened,â the younger officer said.
âI donât know, I was skipping,â Malachi said, âAll I know is I heard the girls screaming, probably some of the guys, too.â
âDonât give me that. Tell us what happened!â the older officer said angrily. The manâs facial expression told years of tales, stories of heroism and daring. His stern, wrinkled features, cold and callous, as his deep chocolate eyes stared at Malachi, sizing him up.
âFine. I gave Jeremiah a ride to school, as always. His bag seemed a bit bigger, but I didnât ask about it. When we arrived to school, I asked Jeremiah if he wanted to go to the pool and have smoke like always. But he said heâd had one before I picked him up. So I went out to the pool and had a smoke. I heard the screaming and I ran inside. By the time I came in, half the school was dead, and Jeremiahâs clothes were covered in blood. I asked him what happened and thatâs when he turned around, when I saw the gun. He said he couldnât take it anymore, that he had to make them pay. I couldnât watch, and I didnât want to be killed myself, so I went back out to the bleachers. He came outside half an hour later. Thatâs when he put the gun to his temple, and I begged him not to. I pleaded with him, praying that he wouldnât. But he said heâd never survive in jail. So he pulled the trigger, and he fell to the ground. But before he did it, he whispered that he loved me, we, weâre like brothers. As he fell to the ground I ran over, I couldnât help it. I shook him and pleaded for him to wake up. But he wouldnât, and I know he wouldnât. But I had to try,â Malachi explained in detail.
Both officers were shocked that he could remember it so well.
âHow old are you, Malachi?â the younger officer asked. The young manâs facial expression soft and kind, unlike his fellow officer, whose facial features were rough. The wrinkles outlined years in this business, years that left his body nearly crippled, and his heart cold and icy.
âSeventeen,â Malachi said. âIâm a junior.â Malachiâs face said that he could care less as he listened to the officerâs interrogation. He tried to pay attention, but he just couldnât. His mind wanders to all the things that had happened in the past two hours. His life had spiraled into a living hell that he wasnât likely to escape.
âIs that how old Jeremiah was too?â He asked again.
âYeah, our birthdays are two week apart,â Malachi said. âWe usually did stuff together for our birthdays. That way we didnât have to pay twice as much.â
âWas Jeremiah also a junior?â The elder officer asked.
âYeah, he was. We were going to graduate together and get out of this hell hole,â Malachi said angrily as he thought of his best friend, âbut they pushed him too far! They werenât the ones staying up late into the night bandaging his cuts and holding him while he cried!â
âCome on, son, weâll take you home so you can calm down and weâll talk some more another day,â the younger officer âOfficer Lewisâ said kindly.
He escorted Malachi out to the cop car and let him sit in the front seat.
âWhat about my car? I have to have my car. Take me to the school so I can get my car,â Malachi said.
Malachi loved his car; it had cost him nearly two years worth of saving to fix it up and make it drivable. Now he only took it to school, home, and the bar. Malachi wasnât exactly shy, not like Jeremiah. Jeremiah had always been shy, but Malachi was never shy, he was the more social of the pair. And thatâs what they were. If they picked Malachi for something during gym, then theyâd also have to pick Jeremiah. Being an amazingly talented athlete, though hidden, Malachi was always one of the first picks.
âWell, youâll have to get your parents to drive you back to the school. You could have PTSD, so I canât leave you alone until youâre home,â Officer Lewis stated.
Malachi growled and began smoking another cigarette.
âYou know, smoking is bad for your health,â Officer Lewis laughed.
âI donât care. I could stop, but I donât want to,â Malachi said angrily.
âI was joking kid, I smoke, too,â Officer Lewis joked as he lit up a cigarette of his own.
âThey let you?â Malachi asked referring to the police station.
âNot much they can do, besides, most of us smoke. Just a habit we picked up off each other. I didnât start till I became a cop,â Officer Lewis said.
âI started when I was eleven,â Malachi said.
âWow, you been at it along time then,â Officer Lewis said.
âYeah,â Malachi replied.
Malachi was home soon after; glad heâd no longer had to deal with the interrogating. He wouldnât be going back in there and they couldnât make him, heâd given them his statement. A week or so later Malachi was enrolled at a new school, one in the same county, but ways away. Hoping that he would forget everything that had happened. But as he looked up at the night sky, a blanket of coal over a baby blue sky, he couldnât forget.
As he walked through the doors of his new school, Malachi could already hear the whispers.
âThey say heâs the only one who survived.â
âEveryone in the school was killed but him! Even the teachers!â
âI heard he was friends with that psycho who did it!â
Malachi just kept walking, trying not to show the pain that stabbed at his back like a thousand knives. They didnât have enough guts to say what they wanted to his face. A new school and more people to call him a punk, scum, good for nothing. But this he had accustomed to. His mother died during his birth and his father had never really forgiven him for it. But Malachi dealt with it with a cold heart and stony expression.
His eyes darted through the halls, seeking a way to escape his new prison so he could satisfy his addiction. He saw a door which led outside. He opened the door and went out to the bleachers and took out his cigarettes. He lit his first one and let out a sigh, he was already starting to feel better. But nothing could replace the gap in his heart that had been left by his best friend killing himself. He laid back on his back and closed his eyes, hoping he may finally be able to sleep for a few minutes, something heâd been lacking since the shooting. But just like every other time he tried to sleep he saw the moment that Jeremiah killed himself. His eyes shot open and just remained in his laid back position.
He nonchalantly laid his arm over his eyes to block the bright sunlight from his sensitive slate eyes. He wanted some relief from the constant torture that plagued him, the sight of his best friend, dead on the ground, his baby blue eyes not dancing like they used to, glazed over. Maybe if he didnât close his eyes he wouldnât see it, but knowing his luck this wouldnât be true. He didnât know how long he laid there, but he eventually made himself relax. He sighed and let the sun warm his skin, despite the noticeable chill that lingered in the air that had seemed to be present all through the area since that day.
Heâd been lucky⦠his dad hadnât been home since the day of the shooting. If he had been, he wouldâve been worse for wear. He certainly wouldnât have been at his new school. He hated school; he had ever since he saw how cruel kids could be, not that they were ever cruel to him. They were far too scared of him for that. They hadnât given Jeremiah a beating in months till the day before the shooting. Because Malachi had made them pay the last couple times. But then, the day before the shooting, was worse than ever. Jeremiah had to have his jaw wired shut because of those scum. Malachi had to watch him cry, because it hurt so much and they couldnât give him any more of the pain killers, any more and he would overdose.
Malachi sat up, running his fingers through his shaggy black hair. He didnât know how long heâd been lying outside. Heâd somewhat drifted off in the time it took to stop thinking about Jeremiah. He hated to think that his best friend was gone. The person heâd grown up with and heâd never seen it coming. Pain shot through him to think he knew his best friend that little that he couldnât have seen this coming. If he had seen it coming, he mightâve been able to stop it. He felt almost guilty for not being able to tell. He hated this feeling, and wanted it gone, but he didnât know how. He stood from the bleachers and sighed. He couldnât take this anymore. The guilt weighed on him like the weight of the world on his shoulders; he was strong, but not this strong. He was tired and felt like the Earth was bearing down on his shoulders. He stumbled his way to his car, heed gone to pick is up in the days following the shooting. He climbed into the 1959 Triumph TR3. Not even thinking about climbing into his precious car, that he'd spent so long fixing. Countless hours of time under the hood and in the garage fixing up the beat up old car to make it shine like it was new. He just drove, almost muscle memory now to drive to his run down old apartment building.
He looked up at his "home". The building was beaten up and rundown. Most of the windows were smashed in and boarded up. The concrete steps were eroded by time and use. The rusted metal railing cried out for help every time a hand rested on the rough surface. He hated to call this old place home. Cobwebs hung from every corner and crevice. He walked up steps into the building before hearing an all too familiar sound. That beat up truck was sounding worse and worse every day, but his dad wouldn't let him fix it. Malachi was a genius mechanic, and his dad was a drunk. Malachi tried to hurry up the stairs without his dad seeing him, but he was too late.
"Well, well, well, look who's decided to come home," the older man mumbled, slurring his words together.
"I've been home dad, you're drunk again...." Malachi said softly.
Christian Sydal had a wicked temper when sober, but when he was drunk. Things went from bad to worse. He was a former army private who was kicked out for his drinking habits. Malachi tried his best to avoid that temper that had forced Christian into so many bar fights. It didn't matter how much Malachi avoided it. He was his dad's personal punching bag. Malachi shook his head and tried to walk away but Christian roughly grabbed hold of his son's loose leather jacket, slamming him into the wall of the steps. The rusty railing jamming into his back, causing him to cry out. He swallowed and looked at his dad.
"Don't you walk away from me, punk!" Christian growled.
"Dad, stop! You're drunk, just go back to the apartment and get some sleepâ¦." Malachi pleaded with his father. His eyes full of fear. If there was one man that Malachi truly feared, it was his father.
"You wishâ¦" Christian slurred. He dropped one hand from Malachi's collar and reeled back, punching Malachi in the jaw, causing his head to bounce off the disintegrating concrete wall behind him. Christian grabbed Malachi's raven black hair and slammed him down onto the steps. "I wouldn't come back to the apartment if I were youâ¦"
Malachi tried not to let it show, but he wanted to cry. He picked himself up off the steps as his dad walked away. He walked flight up the stairs and made a left, not going to his own apartment, but Jeremiahâs. He lifted his key ring and went straight to the key Jeremiah had given him years ago. He unlocked the door, before making his way inside. He opened to door of Jeremiahâs room, Marilyn Manson posters hanging on the walls, along with Slipknot and Disturbed. Malachi couldnât help but smile a bit. He also looked at the plethora of guns lying around. He looking at one in particular. The gun Jeremiah had used tried to use years ago to kill himself. A simple nine millimeter semi automatic handgun. Malachi picked it up off of the bed, looking at the shining chrome exterior.
âWho would really miss me?â Malachi thought to himself. âMomâs dead, Jeremiah is gone, Dad hates meâ¦I have nothing to live for. What would it matter?â
Malachi opened the clip, a full magazine. He took out all but one. He let the cold steel touch his temple, thinking of only Jeremiah.
âI love you, Jeremiah. Iâll see you soon,â he whispered before the gun went off. Sending him to meet Jeremiah again, in the afterlife.