The words flew across the screen, searing the white with their strange-looking strokes—the crosses on the Ts and the dots on the Is. He was entranced with the words he only understood because of the practice—the long hours he’d spent here, in his room. He was hanging upside-down off the side of his bed, his head just brushing the rough carpet of his floor and about half a foot away from the right side up laptop screen. This was a skill that not many people possessed—the unique ability to read words on the screen upside down and type with the tops of his fingers. That was how much time he was in his room.

This particular document he was working on was an essay for English, the greatest class he had in his opinion. His teacher was one of the most inspiring, taking the time to explain the meaning of poems or essays. His teacher was the man to inspire him to become something of consequence. He decided to be a writer.

It was this decision that got him in his room most of the time. His father wanted him to do something manly—be something that a man could be, using his wiles and brute strength. He was not a delicate boy, he was also not brutish and did not falsely advertise an extra Y chromosome. He was moderately strong with a six-pack just brushing the surface. His mother thought him perfect—but that was how mothers were supposed to be was it not?

The door was unlocked and pushed open. He did not turn his head but continued to write his English essay on love and hate. His father grunted at him—it was time for dinner—and he saved his essay, getting up and feeling all the blood that had rushed to his head drain quickly. Red-faced he flew down the stairs past his father, his stomach grumbling hungrily. He sat in his chair next to his mother who smiled at him wearily—she had had quite the time talking to his father about his methods of punishment.

“Say grace boy,” his father grunted as he sat down at the table. His father did not meet his eyes but stared at his mother across the table. He said grace with no emotion and they began.

“What did you do today Rickie?” his mother asked him and he stared at her in disbelief.

“Don’t get smart boy,” his father said and his heart filled with fire—the burning sensation inside of him grew hotter with every glance of hatred that his father sent his way.

“I got punished.”

His mother sighed; she knew this was going to get ugly. “Dear—” she started toward Rickie’s father but she was cut off by his sharp voice.

“Don’t Sarah, he’s just a good for nothing boy, there’s no use protecting him.”

Rickie did not reply; he simply let his ears grow hotter and his heart burn with fury in silence.

You could take him.

He couldn’t, he knew he couldn’t, but there was always that burning desire to get up and deck his father. There was a lot Rickie had wanted to do and tonight it seemed as if he built up the mental strength he could pull it off. His sweaty hands gripped the fork tighter. His and his father’s eyes had locked, both dark oceanic blue eyes creating an unknown force pushing against one another with all of their strength. The designs on the fork handle were pressed into his skin and the edge was almost to the point of drawing blood.

Take him. Take him down you worthless piece of garbage.

Rickie shook his head, breaking the force and losing. He didn’t quite care about his father’s smug expression. He was too interested in this voice, this thing that told him what he was. Worthless. Garbage.

“I have a new job already,” his father told them nonchalantly. He glanced at Rickie, passing him a haughty grin. His father was, in fact, a hit man hired by drug lords to carry out their little “whacks” as they call them. “I’m to kill the Taylers.”

Rickie choked, coughing several times before being able to breath correctly again. The Taylers lived next door and were the greatest people Rickie had ever met. He had spent countless evening sleeping over at their house with his best friend—their son—Teddy. Rickie’s connection to the family seemed not to deter his father in his latest mission.

Get rid of him.

He had to do something; he had to keep them alive somehow.

“Can’t you back down? That’s a little close to home Leo,” his mother said lightly, watching Rickie with wary eyes. She was afraid of both of them, his father and him. They could both overpower her easily but only one of them had taken advantage of that fact…and it wasn’t him.

“What?” Leo boomed, making her jump in her seat in fear, “That would show weakness, show I was a coward…a coward,” he motioned to Rickie—who was still staring at him with malice, “A coward…like the boy here.”

You’re a coward; prove him wrong.

Rickie continued to stare at his father, not bothering with a witty comeback that would get him grounded.

“Isn’t that right boy? I don’t see you doing something like this for a living. This work is for a man to do, not a little boy like you. You’ll never be as good as your old man. I haven’t been caught yet and no one suspects a thing! Let’s see you do that” his father bragged and Rickie continued to stare.

Put him in his place.

“If you’re so brave why are you hiding? Why don’t you stand up, fight the system?” he asked coldly and his father’s face changed slightly. He was beginning to become annoyed.

“You’re not doing that either boy, you don’t even have the stomach to kill,” his father told him in an icy tone.

Rickie stood up, his chair falling to the floor with the force. He marched himself upstairs in a huff before he could say anything else to get grounded for. He slammed the door to his room and jumped back up onto his firm mattress, resuming his position and beginning the conclusion of his essay.

After finishing his report he left the house without a word to either his mother or his father, walking down to the beach to clear his head. He stood on the cool sand and watched a storm gather over the turbulent waters. Lightening danced across the dark, ominous, horizon, sending thunder rolling out across the desolate sea. He stood here and reflected on his life and the cards that had been dealt to him.

He was a rebel in this small town on the Outer Banks of North Carolina—something that was uncommon in the perfect school he went to. He was different, something looked down upon by the society he lived in, but he was constantly trying to find a way to live with the stigma. Rickie wanted to make his way on his own, no matter what happened. Whether the path he chose be rocky and tough or straight and smooth he wanted it to be his own path and his own choice. The only problem with this was that if there was no path to follow he would have to make it.

The black hair he had inherited from his father was sifted through by the ocean’s wind. He combed through it with his fingers, playing with the red-dyed tips that made a ragged halo around his head and matched the crimson headband his mother had bought him for his sixteenth birthday. His eyes were the color of the sea—a deep, dark, mysterious blue that he had also inherited from his father. No matter what he did he would always be shadowed by the thought that he would someday turn into his own father. That was why he wanted to get away from him, from this town. He looked like his father; he had mood swings like his father…and had certain undesirable mannerisms from him too.

You’re a coward.

“I’m not!” he said irritably. “I’m not a coward!” He didn’t know whom he was talking to so he swallowed, regaining his composure and breathing deep. He was sure he could do something to prove himself to his father—but calling the police wouldn’t show his strength or skill. It would just make his father angrier that he couldn’t handle things the way that he wanted them handled. What was a boy to do?

That night his dreams were incredible—he was twenty and he was at the top of his game. He was famous, he was wanted, and he was just so perfect. Yet when he woke up he wondered what he had done to become so famous, so perfect—so wanted. Then the instinct of his father kicked in and he had a sudden flash of realization and he smiled. He would—no…

Yes you will, that’s the perfect way, you know it is and you’re gonna do it…

“No I’m not!” he screamed, holding his shirt in his hands as he dressed.

“Ricardo?” his mother’s voice asked as it floated gently through the door. He replied that he was okay and pulled his shirt on. He went through his morning routine and found Teddy waiting for them to walk to school together at the end of his driveway. A sick feeling overcame him and he felt like throwing up. He wondered when his father would be finishing his deal.

If you’re going to do it, do it soon.

“Hey Teddy,” he said loudly to block out the thought. “You got yer math homework?” he asked.

“If you got your Global,” he replied grinning.

The rest of the day flew by and he handed in his report to the one man who had changed his life. His glasses and balding head—not to mention his short stature—were his trademark and he was one of the funniest teachers Rickie had ever met. To get a point across he would use his disadvantage in height, standing on chairs, jumping from desk to desk, and other such antics. He was, in fact, the teacher who inspired Rickie to make himself something worthwhile. This was becoming increasingly difficult however, considering his circumstances.

Rickie was a wonderful musician. His English teacher was the one to make him strive to be great in that field more than any other. Their unit on poetry was one of the greatest, Rickie thought, and it made him want to write more lyrics to the songs that he wrote on his guitar.

Most of the poetry and short stories he had written—not shown to anyone due to his shy nature—were about killers, the murders, the victims…but he had never written of what the killers did after the murder. What would he do when he—

He gasped and everyone turned in their seats to stare at him.

“Are you alright Mr. Rockey?” his teacher asked. He nodded but he wasn’t that sure.

You were on the right track kid, you’ll do what comes naturally, you’ll run.

Rickie was already a rebel, already the type you would expect to snap in two one day, but he didn’t want to prove them all right! He didn’t do drugs, he didn’t beat kids up for their lunch money, and he didn’t find pleasure in stealing things from others. He’d only had one detention once in his life and that was only because his father wouldn’t let him leave until he was already late. He had been offered cigarettes but they were something that he had regarded as “too stupid to dignify by trying”.

All that made him a rebel was the stigma that came from his appearance. He was young, hot, single, had two colors in his hair, wore baggy pants, and the one thing that tugged most of the old-timer’s chains around him—the headband. That headband was the subject of much controversy in this small town and was debated in such places as school, church, and restaurants by many passersby. He was what the small town called a rebel. Sheltered as they were Rickie couldn’t help but play the part.

If only they knew what was going on inside his head! On the walk home he and Teddy talked about anything from cars to girls, to what they were going to do this weekend. Rickie’s mind however was on a different track. He wasn’t planning the murder; he was living it.

There were so many different ways it could play out. His heartbeat grew faster, faster…until he could swear it would burst from his chest like a frightened bird in a steel cage. He was so into his mind he was ignoring all that Teddy was saying. The only thing he could see and hear was the blood, the screams, and the terror in their eyes. In Teddy’s eyes as he died by his best friend’s own hand.

“Holy shit Rick,” Teddy was saying when he popped back into reality. “You’re sweatin’ like there’s no tomorrow, it’s not that hot out pal, not even summer yet.”

He looked down at his hands, his heart pounding in his ears, the blood rushing through them as a river over rapids. Sweat dripped off them to the ground and he wiped them in his T-shirt only to find it drenched as well.

“Are you okay man? You look like you just killed somebody.”

To that Rickie stared his friend in the eyes, his dark blue orbs filled with fear and malice. “I didn’t…I didn’t…”

“What are stuttering about Rick, are you okay? You sound sick, are you alright?”

Rickie turned and ran. He ran from his best friend to his house, the sweat on his brow cooling him in the rushing salty wind. He could hear his friend’s cries for him to stop but he did not, he could only hear his sanity screaming for him to run as fast as he could away from this thought of horror.

Don’t run Renegade, stop and face your destiny.

“No!” he yelled as he slammed his door shut, his slick hair falling over his eyes in a curtain of crimson. “I will not!” He ran to his room, his legs almost failing him as he scrambled up the stairs. He locked his bedroom door and sat in front of his bed with his knees tucked against him. He would not let himself do this, have the thrill—the sheer pleasure—of killing someone he loved.

Haha, pleasure…what a funny word for it.

He sat there until his mother called him down for dinner. He did nothing—even when Teddy rang the doorbell. He was trapped in this maniac’s prison, his own mind. It was a dark place that he would only compare to the deep crevices where the weasels and rats…and lower level demons can hide in Hell. He was panting and still sweating when his mother called him down for dinner. He went and passed her in silence. She was staring at him as he came down and brushed her, his eyes narrowed and intent on one thing—getting through the night without losing what was left of his sanity.

He sat, took a casual and menacing glance toward his father, not bothering to brush away his damp bangs from in front of his eyes. His mother sat down nervously at her seat.

“Well, um…Rickie…have you been, doing something?” she asked lightly.

“Like what?” he asked in a deep, throaty voice which he did not recognize as his own. She seemed wary.

“Well, you’re hot and sweaty and panting and usually boys who look like that after being in their rooms…I read in a magazine that boys…they’ll,” she paused, “You know…they…”

“Jack off,” his father said gruffly, taking a gulp of his red wine. Rickie turned his head to his father. His head was somewhat bowed and he stared through his locks at the man who had stolen his judgment of right and wrong.

“Well that’s not the term that I was referring to but I suppose it works. Is it time we had that little talk about the birds and the bees?”

Rickie turned his gaze to his mother and raised his head, straightening his back and staring down at her through narrowed eyes. She began to tremble—or so he thought—and he shook his head.

“I wasn’t jacking off,” he said, hissing the last two words through his teeth.

“Y-you just…seemed a little disheveled is all. I mean, maybe you just need some dinner and a long shower?”

“A long cold shower?”

Tell him what for Renegade you can do it.

“You would know dad.”

His father took in an annoyed breath through his nose. “You are getting on my nerves and you haven’t even begun to eat yet. What are you implying?”

He grinned. “Your love life can’t be that great if I haven’t heard mom moan in a few months. I mean, it used to be every week but now,” he shook his head, “nothin’.”

“You little bastard!” he murmured threateningly.

“Mom, could you pass the potatoes?” he asked her, changing the subject in his lighter tone.

The rest of dinner came and went with silence and soon he was off in his room again, his laptop on his bed and his fingers typing madly away at it. He wasn’t quite sure what was going on but he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer.

No, you can’t. You can’t hold out much longer and when you snap it’s going to be bloody. Lemme tell ya…wait, I can show you—you could even show yourself you little bloodhound you! You know you like it, I know you like it.

“I don’t like it,” he told himself, typing and typing without any thought. He closed his eyes and pried his fingers off the keys, holding his sweating head in his hands. He looked down at the story he was writing and he pressed the save button. What he did after this even he did not know why he did it.

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Author's Note: I know, I'm evil. This is very different from the original story, I make him insane before the fact instead of after and he is able to cope with it better. I go into his head from the get go and I make his feuding with his father a bigger thing. I also went to the Outer Banks this summer and I was able to change the story to fit the surrounding I keep him in North Carolina for a longer time in this version. I've never gone to Chicago however, I suppose that's why I don't describe it much, tell you what, when I go visit my cousins then I'll describe it...right now I'm just using my memories from Washington D.C. Whatever. Please read and review, I would adore you if you did. (Big Smiles!)