“Unlock the goddamned door, Tobias!” I hear my stepfather yell, slurring his words as he does, though the door of my bedroom as he hammers on the wood with his fist. Steven is drunk, again, and once again my mother has left. I am the only one here for him to take out his rage on, and I’m not giving him the opportunity to do that without effort, thus the reason he’s screaming.

He yells as if it is crime for me to have the door shut, as if it was a crime for me to not give him an invitation to beat me. I refuse to make it that easy for him; if he wants to hit me again, he’s going to have to get through my door first. He continues to pound on the door, still screaming stupidly, and my hands go to my temples as I take the mental steps tune out his voice. The drunkard will bash at my door until his hands bleed and still keep at it in attempt to get to something that will give to his fists.

I sit cross-legged on my bed, staring at the faded blue of my sheets. I wish he would just stop. I wish he would stop screaming, stop pounding at the door, stop acting like it is his god-given right to beat me to a pulp simply because I exist. I pull the grey material of my long sleeve shirt over my thumb, rubbing my arm. I wear long sleeves all the time to hid the bruises and my cuts. I am more ashamed of the bruises Steven leaves on me, though; I’m old enough that I should be able to stop him.

Then stop it. That biting little voice in the back of my head decides to interject into my thoughts. I should stop it. Then stop it. You’re strong enough to stop it. You’ve been strong enough since you were little. My conscience is right, of course. It is true. Then why did you let it get to this point? This internal criticism makes me pause. How was it that I did get to this point? I am sitting in my room with a locked door between me and the man who hates me, my mother nowhere to be found. How did it get here?

My hand runs over my arm, feeling the characteristic heaviness in my limbs that comes with my feeling threatened or scared, or any other extreme negative emotion. I push up the sleeve that I had just pulled down, inspecting my arm. There are horizontal and vertical cuts over my wrists, the most recent a few days old and the oldest about a month. I have no scars, but there should be. The month old gashes were by no means the first I have made. There should be years old scars on my arms and nearly everywhere else on my body there was a prominent vein. There are not, but there should be. My fingers linger not over the lines, but over the bruises upon my forearm. These were very recent, and the vague black and blue shape of a hand is still visible against my very pale skin. I hate that he can mark me.

I feel a familiar discomfort in my arm and take a deep breath, pushing every thought of fear from my mind as I pull a pocketknife out of my worn jeans. I open the blade, and set the sharp edge against my wrist, just under another recent cut. I bite my lip thoughtfully, and press the knife down hard into my flesh. I cut deeply, slicing through my veins and I only wince a little. I am very used to this kind of pain. I’ve been doing this for a very long time, after all. A small amount of my unusually dark red blood seeps out, but it is not much at all in relation to how deep the cut is. Dropping the blade, I push back on my hand causing the wound to open wider.

I hold my arm steady as I reach into the wound and carefully pull a long, sharp needle out of my vein. I set the needle down on my bed. It is the length of a knife and only slightly smeared with my blood. It is razor sharp on both ends fading to smooth metal in the middle and a dull black-silver, like iron.

I repeat the action, pulling two more needles of the same length out of my arm before it feels light, normal, again. I tilt my wrist back up, holding the gash close together to allow the veins to reconnect, as they always do rather quickly. Injuries like this always heal fast. I wipe the cut clean of blood and only a little more trickles out. Pulling the sleeve back down, I repeat the action on my other arm. As I pull out another needles, a realization hits me. This is how I got to this point. This little ability brought me here. Or, more accurately, it was the response to my talent that brought me here.

My first discovery of my ability came when I was around four. I remember it vividly, to this day. My parents were already divorced by then and I was living with my father. I was playing outside and this big, black and brown dog came up to me. I didn’t realize then that the noise it was making meant it didn’t like me, and I made the attempt to pet the animal.

Though the creature did not bite me, it did snap at me and chase me back into my house, where I sank down into a crying fit on the other side of the door. The dog still barking at the closed door, I began to feel uncomfortable. My arms, my legs, every part of me was starting to ache and feel unnaturally heavy. I remember ignoring the feeling, continuing to cry until that discomfort became pain, and I remember watching in horror as needles broke my skin, pushing through my flesh from inside of me. That was all it took for me to run to my father, Michael, screaming, crying, and, thought I didn’t know it then, making my entire situation worse.

Needless to say, he took me to the hospital and the doctors did not know what to make of me. They had to sedate me to calm me down before removing the needles, which meant inserting yet another one into me, which I remember being incredibly unhappy about. The memory stops there, and picks up again when I wake up later, the needles all gone, except one in my arm that I remember seeing, panicking about, and instantly tearing out. I didn’t understand then that it was my IV that I ripped out, but I learned quickly.

I had to learn quickly about hospital procedure, as I visited there quite a bit when I was young. I had return trips so often that the ER nurses knew my name and almost entire file by heart. In fact, I was there often enough that by the time I was seven the people from the hospital decided that my situation must have been inflicted by someone at home. It was decided that my father was abusing me, even though I denied it and the puncture wounds from the needles themselves proved that they somehow came from the inside.

To solve this abuse problem that the social services proclaimed I had, I was taken away from my father, or rather my mother’s first husband and the man who was told he was my father. Michael obviously wasn’t my dad, but he took care of me like I was his real son. He’s a good person, one of few I’ve ever met. He still writes to me and still calls me his son.

It was always very obvious I wasn’t related to him, though, my appearance screamed it and it still does. I have very pale blond hair, almost like a white-yellow color. It is shaggy and always messy; its getting rather long now, since I haven’t had a hair cut in a long time. My eyes are yellow, almost like a wolf or a hawk. There is no outline around the color, either, as if the yellow could just bleed into the whites of my eyes. My pupils are strange too. Instead of completely round, they look like a cat’s in the dark. They appear almost as if they tried to become slits, and didn’t quite manage. I have strangely good vision in the dark.

My father, or the man who treated me like a son before social services took me away, had brown hair, and normal brown eyes. My mother, who left me with him, has green eyes and hair that I’m told was originally red. She now has hair so bleached blond that it could be close to my color, if it wasn’t so glaringly fake.

I was sent to my mom when I was taken away Michael, when I was eight years old, after being shuffled around in foster care while they searched for her. Unfortunately, social services had their belief in my abuse enforced, because my needle problem apparently stopped when I was sent to a foster home. This, of course, was not the case. You can’t get rid of something that’s in your blood. I simply learned to be quiet about my condition and I learned fast how to recognize the feeling of the needles forming. When they poked through my skin, I just pulled them out, didn’t tell anyone about it, and hid for a few hours until I healed. But, it was with my foster family that I found a better method. The method I still use.

I remember well the day I stumbled across this solution. I was hiding in the bathtub of my foster home with the curtain drawn. I was bleeding from needle wounds and didn’t want to be found. I find it sad now that , even at that age, the pain was becoming familiar. It was late, at least midnight, and I had been frightened by a nightmare. There was a yellow monster looking for me in my dream.

The lights of the bathroom were suddenly thrown on. I thought I had been caught and struggled not to be scared. I heard my teenage foster sister, Ashley, run in and start crying. I didn’t know why she was upset, but I had seen her sneak out of the house earlier that night. I assume now that it was a boyfriend issue, but it doesn’t matter now; it barely mattered then. I peeked around the shower curtain carefully and watched as Ashley drew a razor across her wrist. I remember wondering why she cried out because, to me, it didn’t look like it hurt to much at all.

The next time I was scared I took a page out of my foster sister’s book and picked up a razor. I decided not to wait for the needles to push through my flesh on their own. I cut myself, and took them out on my own. It was awkward sometimes, because the needles form anywhere that I had a major vein near the my skin, but it was a much better solution than waiting.

I give a small ironic smile. It is such a morbid thought: an eight year old slicing open his veins to pull out needles. Morbid and insane sounding. I pick up one of the needles and examine the object. It seems to me that I should be crazy right now, dealing with all the pain and abuse from since I was so young. Maybe I am, merely because of the sick fact that I’m used to it.

It also amuses me that the very sort of person who unknowingly taught me my solution is the type I now despise. It is true that I cut myself, and I carry a pocket knife to do it, but I am in no way under the delusion that the world or anyone in it cares that I am in pain. My pain is irrelevant, and what I do simply needs to be done.

My mother’s husband is still hammering at the door. Still wanting something yielding to beat on, no doubt. It is irony, it really is. I was put here because someone decided I was abused. Here, where I really am and this time no one decides to step in, not even my mother. Not that I really expect her to. She leaves every time Steven comes home in this state. She leaves me here to be hit; she has since I was dropped in this cesspool when I was young.

I asked my mother recently about her reasons. I asked her why she doesn’t let me leave, because I know she doesn’t like me around. She snapped at me; my mommy dearest likes to pretend she is a good mother. That’s okay; I know why she doesn’t let me leave. It is so I can be the punching bag instead of her. The stupid whore had the nerve to scream at me about how she nearly died giving birth to me and about how much of an ungrateful little bastard I am. She was right on that point and I told her so. I don’t know who my real father is, and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know either.

She did nearly die giving birth to me, and she’s told me enough times that I know the story. Every time she tells it, it seems to me that she wants me to be sorry for it. I’m not and I never will be. Honestly, it was probably my needles that nearly killed her because I’m sure birth frightens a baby. Maybe she should have died having me; I wouldn’t have been put in this hell hole if she had.

I flip a needle between and over my fingers, remembering. I used to just throw them away. When I was younger, I didn’t know what else to do with them. After I got older, though, something happened that made me realized what they were for, why my body make them when I got scared.

When I was twelve, almost four years ago now, I was startled while holding one of my self-made weapons. Steven came into the house and slammed the door. Instinctively, I turned around and whipped the needle in my hand at the wall toward the noise. It imbedded about an inch into the wall.

To this day, I cannot believe that it took me so long to realize my ability is a weapon. Since then, however, I took steps to better utilize it. I look up at my wall and smile a little. I have a dartboard on my bedroom wall, but I threw away the darts that came with it the day I bought it. I’ve gotten rather accurate with my own weapons with practice. I’ve learned both how to sharpshoot, in a way, with one needle, or to throw more than one with relative accuracy.

I also, to this day, have a kind of obsession with researching my condition. I’ve been looking for years and have found nothing. Absolutely nothing. With all this research into human biology I have, however, realized how dangerous a well placed needle can be in unprotected places on the body.

“Open the fucking door!” screams my mother’s husband, jarring me out of my thoughts. I clench my fist automatically, before forcing my fingers to relax. I try very hard to maintain emotional control, as it makes my life easier. Anger is hard to keep under control after a certain point, though. Something in me seems to flare, and I get the urge to fight. I’m not sure why; I’m normally a calm, collected person without trying, no matter what’s around me.

Maybe it’s because I know I could hurt someone. I never have before, other than swinging back when I was hit, but I know I could. I could pay Steven back for all the pain he’s caused me. I could make him stop. I should make him stop.

“Unlock this door, you bastard! I’ll throw your ass out into the street, you little freak!” he slurs at me.

Throw me into the street? But I’m ever so grateful to live here, as it is such a wonderful home. Freak? Maybe, but I am flawed inherently. I didn’t choose to drown my self created sorrows and decompose my brain with alcohol. I don’t want to cause pain I can’t justify with anything but rage.

As for pain I can justify, that sounds like a better idea every second, with every bang against my door. I stare at it and can feel anger rise. I’m not a violent person, typically, but this is survival of the fittest. Whenever I open that door, if it is in a minute, an hour, a day, or a week, I’m going to get the living hell beat out of me. I don’t like the thought of leaving that opportunity open. I do not want to be hit again. No, I won’t be hit again. I refuse to let him; I’m stopping this now.

I pull my grey sleeve back down, letting a small bit of my dark blood stain it, and I get up from the seat on my bed. I slip on my worn white tennis shoes, as I am not sticking around much longer. I grab the six needles off of my blanket, before I flip the worn mattress up and lean it against the wall. I open up a seam with the razor sharp end of a needle. I reach in a pull out a folded wad of money, my “life savings.” I’ve been saving most of the money I’ve gotten since I was twelve, including the money Micheal sometimes sends with his letters. Its about two hundred dollars now, but I’ve had to start over three times since then; I hadn’t hidden it well enough. I don’t know if it was my mother or the drunken ass pounding on the door that stole from me, but it doesn’t matter. What kind of person steals from a kid? Sadly, I know.

The same kind of person that beats an eight year old and the same kind that leaves that eight year old alone to be beaten. I grip the smooth centers of three of the needles, and letting all true thought subside. I’ve found that intelligent thought impedes my aim, and instinct fights better than sentience.

My yellow eyes focus on my bedroom door, the source of the threat. My fist clenches a little more, and I drawn my hand back across my chest. I reach out carefully with my other hand and I unlock my door. It flies open as Steven bangs on it again. I do not hesitate because my mind is made up and to hesitate is to give the enemy a chance to strike first. As soon as the door opens, I whip the three needles at my abuser, aiming only with instinct and reflex. For a split second, I am sure I missed .I need to learn to trust my instincts more.

I watch, almost stunned, as the long needles bury themselves into his neck, chest and abdomen. Steven stumbles backwards, and my brief worry evaporates. I feel a smile curl over my face, though I don’t know why. I shouldn’t find this funny. I don’t find this funny. I don’t.

I throw the two of the remaining needles so that they embed themselves deeply into his throat. Steven falls to the ground and I somehow feel certain I tore open part of the trachea. I walk closer to the fallen body, my yellow eyes narrowing and my vision changing slightly. I focus in on his chest, watching the shallow rise and fall of dying breaths. I step over to the side of his body, casting the last needle downward into where I am certain his heart is. His breathing stills and I lean down, wrenching one of the needles out of his throat and dragging the bladed edge of it across the front of it. Something in me said just to make sure.

I pause as I straighten back up. Just make sure? Why did I think that? As a matter of fact, why am I so okay with the fact that a man is dead at my hands and I knew how to do it? I stare at the bloody needle in my hand and I slowly begin to back away from the corpse. I turn around and sprint toward the door of the house, adrenaline from fear instead of fighting now pumping through my veins. I reach out to turn the doorknob, seconds away from freedom when it turns on its own.

My mother opens the door and we stare at each other for a moment. “Tobias, what the hell are you doing and where the hell do you think you’re going.”

I stare a little more before pushing the bloody needle in my hands at her and walking out the door. I say nothing; I can’t. I’m afraid of what I may say if I open my mouth. I just leave; she won’t miss me anyway and I need to get farther away before she discovers the corpse that was her husband.

I hear her yelling insults and threats at me, but I just keep running down the sidewalk. What am I going to do? I killed my stepfather. I’ll be caught and I– No. I stop that mental cycle before it can pick up momentum. Calm. That’s the way to deal with this.

I feel the muscles in my legs begin to burn. I’m calming down, but I am still running, as if I am not only trying to get away, but to get somewhere as well. I don’t know why; I have no destination. As a matter of fact, my eyes are on the ground, looking down instead of ahead to keep my mind away from the fact that I have nowhere to go.

Suddenly, I hears a scream come from behind me. The noise pierces my brain and I look back on impulse as I realize my mother must have found the body. Not watching where I’m going, I slam into something rather solid that knocks the wind out of me. I ran into a person, a man with long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“I”m sorry.” I mumble, my eyes still on the ground. I just want to get away.

I hear the man I ran into laugh. He pats me on the head like I am a child. I glance up at this, only to see an older pair of my own yellow eyes staring down at me. I am speechless, but he is not.

“No need to be sorry, and no need to stop either. From the sound of that scream, there are problems at home?”

“It’s not home. It’s just a house.” I say before I can stop myself. I bite my lip as soon as the words are out of my mouth. He’ll take me back, won’t he? Back to face what I did.

The man looks thoughtful and pats my shoulder. “Go on and run. I won’t drag you back.”

I decided to listen before he changes his mind. I run.

If Tobias wasn’t so overwhelmed with shock, adrenaline and fear, he would have looked more closely at the man he ran into. He would have noticed that the man’s hair was the same white-yellow as his own. The boy would have realized the yellow eyes he saw were not only the same color as he own, but that the pupils matched as well.

The strange man watches Tobias run away, before making his way to the house the boy left. He walks through the door that was left open, and down the hall where he sees a woman with bleached blond hair crying over a corpse. Tobias’ mother, of course. His eyes narrow as he feels a sting of hatred. “My boy fought back, didn’t he, Lauren?”

Tobias’s mother looks up and stumbles to her feet. “Leave me alone. Your psychotic little bastard is gone. He k-killed Steven and he ran away! So just leave me alone, Kacye!”

The blond man named Kacye just nods. “I know he’s gone. Trust me, I would much rather not be here. I am here only to tie up the loose ends he left behind.” It was true. Kacye would have rather just told Tobias the truth and left this place be. But, there was work to be done first. “Though it seems Tobias started the job on his own.” He shakes his head. “I told you soon after he was born that he was better off left with me, I insisted, but you had to put up that pathetic charade and give him to your husband at the time. I looked for Tobias, for my son, for a very long time. When I finally found news of him a year ago, I heard of the abuse he was suffering. I asked you today to tell him about me, but you wouldn’t. You ran, and got home just in time to see this.” Kacye gestures at the body on the worn carpet.

The crying woman shakes her head, as if denying this. “He never knew you. He wouldn’t go with you.” Lauren protests through her sobs. Kacye scoffs. She was pretending again..

He could tell she did not really care, and feels a pang of sadness, knowing his is what his son grew up with. “He would have gone anywhere to get away from here.” Kacye replies. He shakes his head.

As he stares at the pitiful excuse for a human in front of him, his eyes begin to change, with his pupils narrowing to cat–like slits. Roughly diamond shaped outlines appear on his skin as it shifts, both skin and clothing melding into a reptilian hide as a vivid yellow color that matches his eyes pours over the scales. He pulls the ponytail out of his long white blond hair and it melts into his skull and back. A draconic tail covered in the same yellow scales extends from his spine, tipped with metallic black, needle-like spikes. His hands shift, becoming tipped with black claws and his feet change as well, becoming almost like a predatory dinosaur’s, ending in the same black claws as his hands. Kacye smiles to show sharp, metallic black teeth.

Lauren begins to back away from this spectacle, and starts to run towards the open door of her home, away from the demon now within it. Kacye clenches his fist, and three shapes move under the scaly yellow skin of each arm. The tips of three needles exit his flesh under the scales at the wrist of each arm. He pulls the needles out of his flesh, black blood standing out against the yellow of his skin, before crossing his arms over his scaled chest and whipping the needles at the woman at fault for his son’s suffering. All six bury themselves in her skull with the force of bullets.

The demon Kacye shifts back into his human form and he calmly pulls his long hair back into its ponytail. The last loose end tied up, he steps over the second corpse to hit the floor of this house, and walks out of the door, closing it behind him. Kacye leaves, to search again for the boy he had to let go.