Scars
Prologue:
He had scars that criss-crossed up and down both of his arms, scars that had formed under cuts so deep the bearer must have hewed away at his skin. No one saw the scars, though; he made sure of that. And nobody saw the fresh wounds, either; the ones that had been formed after his significant other hanged herself in his closet while huffing crack, a slow strangulation. The rope was still there.
Sometimes the blood from his arms dripped down onto the linoleum in his bathroom, which was conjoined to his bedroom. At those times he would have to clean it up quickly, not that anyone could have walked in on him anyway-he padlocked his door.
Oftentimes, he considered using the rope his girlfriend used. Sometimes he even tried it on for size. But he was too tall for it, and anyway, he had things to do before he died. Still, it comforted him to know he could go at any time, like lying down to sleep and knowing you wouldn’t have to wake up to the nasty world in the morning.
The scars were deep. Each one had a story he could tell himself while alone in his room, like having his life written down on his arms. Like the three diagonal scars on his left arm, from when his sister had died on a drug overdose. Or the one on the right hand side of his index finger on his right hand, from when he got in a fight with his mom. The scissor slits between each finger had been after a sickening beating from his mother’s boyfriend that had left him shaking for hours on the hard wood floor in his bedroom.
He could even trace his first scar, from the first time he cut, when he was fourteen. That was when his father had been put on death row...
Three years of cutting. Three years worth of scars. Not just on his arms. Everywhere. On the soles of his feet. Beneath his fingernails and toenails. On the inside of his thighs. Four scars like cat scratches, that went from mid-left arm all the way to his knuckles, six exactly alike, measured carefully, an inch and a half each, parallel with his ankle.
His mother knew about the scars, but she didn’t care. She was too drunk most of the time to even remember her own name, let alone her son’s problems.
His body was numb.
He wanted to die.
He had formed a scar across his chest, running from heart to navel and across the center of his chest, stopping at his pectorals. He couldn’t have explained that to anyone, let alone himself. He had just been carving with a Swiss Army Knife. Carving was fun.
Too bad he was so messed up. He could have been attractive. With shaggy, slightly curly chestnut hair and wide green eyes that had once been so eager to soak up the world. Tall and lean, with broad shoulders and dramatic eyebrows, he could have been beautiful.
Most girls thought he was. They saw his exterior-calm, placid and seemingly perfect, with that laid back personality that could melt your insides the way he melted Tracy Stevenson’s with his cigarette lighter, after butchering her in some deserted alleyway with that same Swiss Army Knife, and lighting her on fire.
Tracy had been the first one. Pretty girl, that one. She had long, straightened blonde hair and blue eyes (though only because she wore colored contact lenses, in fact her eyes had been brown). She was the envy of North Central High School, but after she disappeared, she was never seen again, not even a trace. That was because he swept up her ashes into a glass jar and mixed them in his mom’s powdered protein shake container. She never found out, though once she complained that the shake was oddly bitter.
No one could even connect him to Tracy, either, because she had so openly scoffed at him half the time at school, while secretly lovemaking in her basement with him the other half. She said it was her reputation that kept her from letting anyone know that she “loved” him. Basically she just liked to have someone putting it on her hard without any commitment. He had-until she called him a “punk-fag in black eyeliner” in front of the whole cafeteria. Then, something had to be done about that one.
His name was Hayden LaShae. He was half-Italian on his mother’s side, one quarter Irish and one quarter Native American. He base skin color was pale but he tanned well.
He was crazy, or at least so he thought. Too screwed up by the time he was seventeen to ever be saved.
The book you hold in your hands is Hayden LaShae’s story. It’s about seances and spirits, parties and demonic influence. It’s about killing beings, both human and non. It’s a bloodbath. It’s about boys wearing eyeliner. It’s about the devil. It’s about God. It’s about a War. A Spiritual War. It’s about proving that no one is beyond redemption, not ever. No matter what.
And it’s about what happens at half past midnight.
Chapter One:
“I don’t know,” the boy said again, shaking his head softly and biting his lower lip. His wrists were shaking on the plastic table, held close together with handcuffs that had been placed on too tightly.
“You’re saying you have no idea what happened to Raina Elaine?” the police officer said, repeating the question.
This time, the boy stayed silent. After a long pause, he said, in a whisper so low it was barely audible, “Yes.”
The police officer frowned, and crossed his arms, staring at the youth before him. About seventeen, the boy had shaggy black hair, and eyes that would have been a brilliant green if they weren’t so void of emotion. He had obviously picked up a drug habit, judging by his shrunken appearance, and judging by the scars that ran down his arms, he was a pretty confused kid.
“You are aware of the consequences of lying during a government interrogation, aren’t you boy?” The man said in threatening tones. “Now, you were closest to her, and you were seen with her last. As a side note, you didn’t like this girl. She went out on you. Spread rumors through the school. Made your life hell, in a nutshell.”
Another long pause. Then, a murmur. “My life was already hell. I call the fifth.” He kept his eyes down, continued to chew on his lip, and remained expressionless.
There was nothing else that could be done, then. The police officer led the boy back to his cell, in the Washington Juvenile Detainment Center, before striding into his office, annoyed.
“What are you going to do?” The detective, Joe Pierre, asked. Pierre had been with the officer, Ronnie Evans, during the interrogation.
“Let him go I guess,” Evans said. “We got nothing on him. He may have issues-serious ones at that, but the fact that he was dating her at a point hardly gives us adequate clause to accuse him of murder. Call his mother-does he have a mother?” Pierre nodded, “Good. Call her and have her pick him up. Send her to my secretary, she has a few papers to sign.” Evans sighed, and shook his head. “Crazy kid. Heading straight for trouble.”
The detective shook his head. “From the look’s of it, he’s already there.”
* * *
Hayden’s mother was ranting in the passenger seat of the van. “Always in trouble, always. Get to pick you up from the police station once a week I swear it you’ll be the death of me.”
Yeah, Hayden agreed inwardly as he drove, I probably will. Slit you open like I cut up Tracy Gold. Burn you up, starting with that mouth of yours. God I would love that.
“Wasn’t my fault, Raina was killed, they thought I might know something,” he said in low tones. Sure yeah that’s it they thought I might know something. Hell, from the way they burst through the doors at Trent’s place you’d think I did it in front of the police station with ten witnesses. But they had nothing on him. Sure, he looked screwed-up, with his punk clothing and dyed black hair, but hey, he was just a kid, right?
His mother didn’t let up. “I swear to god I keep you, raise you right the best way I know how, pay for your food and clothes and keep you alive under my roof, and you can’t even stay out of trouble.”
Hayden didn’t point out that he’d been paying the bills with his Burger King job for months now. Lucky the insurance was low on their rubbish house, and Jerry paid for groceries.
Jerry. The thought of his mother’s boyfriend of two years made Hayden sick. He was probably gonna get his butt kicked for this as soon as he got home.
The bum had been living with them ever since his house burned to the ground.
Hayden smiled. Oops. That was an accident. Really, Jer, I didn’t mean it. Left the stove on, my fault.
He’d been bed-ridden for a week after that. Well worth it.
“Hey, I quit my job,” Hayden said, staring at his mom out of the corner of his eye. “Too much grease, made my face all oily from working over the fry stove.
He loved the way her eyes widened. Yeah, that’s right, hag, I quit my job. Pay your own freaking bills, have fun with that.
“Hayden...James...LaShae, how...could you!”
“Oh, you know how it is. I’m only seventeen. Couldn’t hold a steady job if my life depended on it.”
She gasped, beyond words.
What are we supposed to do? He simulated her voice in his head. Oh my god does this mean I have to get a job? Actually get a job? Pay for my own booze? Are you serious? Yeah, ma, that’s what it means, definitely. Haha.
“Jerry is going to kill you,” she whispered. Now she actually looked afraid. He hated that look of fear. Like she had no control whatsoever over her own boyfriend. But then, he beat her up too.
For a moment, with her eyes so wide and innocent, his mom looked younger, like before his father was convicted of serial murder and second degree arson. Before death row.
He could remember how she’d been back then, before they knew how screwed up his father really was. With that perfectly straight brown hair that had become tangled and frazzled. Sparkling green eyes just like his own. With her hair and make-up all done up, in those nice clothes she used to wear. She was so pretty.
She still was, under it all. But now, there was a certain vacancy in her eyes. Her face was more worn than it had been. Just twice his age, she looked years older. Like she’d forgotten how to smile.
“Dump the louse, mom! He doesn’t love you!” Hayden said, getting so emotional he forgot about driving for a moment and crossed into the other lane. He got the vehicle back under control and waited for his mom’s response.
“Of course he does,” she replied shortly. “In his own way he loves us both. Now, stop being ridiculous, Hayden.”
“Sorry, ma.”
He really was. Sorry I screwed up my life. Sorry I killed Tracy, and now Raina. Sorry I can’t stop with this whole “mortification” thing or whatever the Human Interests teacher calls it. Sorry I killed the dog too. Oh, wait, you don’t know about that. Yeah I did. I killed Scruffy. I didn’t mean to, my ex girlfriend made me mad, so I ran him through with a shovel. My bad.
He wanted to say all of that, but he couldn’t. Instead he said, “I’m moving out.”
Chapter Two:
“I don’t want you to go, Hayden,” his mother said, her eyes glazed over with tears. She watched him packing his clothes in an old sports bag, and shook her head. “You can’t. Summer’s only just started, Jerry will be so mad, how could you...you know he’ll...baby I’ll miss you!”
She took another long gulp out of the bottle, and sat down drunkenly on his bed. “Where are you going?” she asked finally, after getting no response.
“With Trent and the guys,” he said shortly, finally pulling a small wad of cash he had kept hidden in his sock drawer, and a zip-lock bag filled with powdered substance. His mother’s eyes widened.
“Hayden!” she exclaimed.
“As if you cared,” he muttered. “Later, mom.” He kissed her forehead, and grabbed the keys to his old, beaten-up Chevet. As his engine revved to life, he saw Jerry pulling up beside him, shaking a fist. Hayden laughed quietly to himself, though there was no mirth in it, and pulled out of the driveway.
“Good bye, Jer,” he whispered irreverently, muttering a few expletives along the way. “I hope you burn in hell.”
* * *
“Yeah, we’ve got an extra bed,” Trent said with a shrug. “After Marty went, well, he don’t need it anymore.”
Hayden nodded, “Yeah I know where the room is at.” He started up the stairs.
“You still got your job at BK?” Trent asked. “Cause Marty was putting out fifty a month for rent. Not to mention a couple hundred for the extra stuff. Though that depends on how much you use.”
“Don’t worry I’ve got the money,” Hayden said flatly.
“See you tonight then. Twelve, as usual.”
“‘Kay.”
Hayden shoved his sports bag onto the bed. He’d already figured he’d have to go back and get the rest of his stuff tomorrow, when Jerry was gone at “work,” doing whatever he did and making next-to-nothing, less than Hayden’s $6.20 an hour at BK.
Till then, he had a long night ahead of him, and he hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before at the station, so he might as well rest up.
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Hehe, just kidding. But anway...lemme read the rest of this...
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