Chapter 1:

“Hey, kid! Come back here!” a fat store owner yelled, his apron stained with newly disposed sweat. “Theif!”

The boy bit into his apple triumphantly. The street was not disturbed by his act or the owner’s outrage. The simple life wasn’t always easy. He turned the corner and returned to his quarters.

No one lived in the old warehouse, therefore automatically giving it to the boy. He flopped onto the flat couch and grabbed his ancient computer. The newest information on the World Wide Web – now restricted to Orange County Web – had been the same things for years now. He shoved aside his laptop, replacing it with an old copy of Edgar Allen Poe collections.

Half way through The Black Cat, unfriendly sirens wailed and a loud voice rang over the loudspeaker.

“Steven, come out. I know you’re in there,” it boomed.

Steven sighed and walked to the front of the building, book still in hand and apple still in mouth. He shoved the old front door open with a clank.

A single black and white care was parked in the front, an officer leaning over its hood. In his hand was a wireless walkie-talkie. Relaxed and bored, Steven waited for the officer’s scolding about not stealing, living with his family, and blah blah blah.

He’d been told hundreds of times.

“Steven, why don’t you live with your family?” the officer asked. Steven drowned him out with the late morning clouds above. Fake shapes that would only make sense to him were soaring high. His mind dwindled. Before the fake sky was truly fake, before the police became complete dictators of the people, before Steven had left his family, things were actually not that bad. Granted, Mr. Lither III was in his first rule and things were just starting to get ugly. Never had Steven seen freedom. Not from this town, not from his life-time.

He thought of the history books from his short time in school. Lies. The books were all lies, and he was probably the only person that knew that. No way could Columbus have purposely sailed to America, just to find California. No way that the British just let us off their control into our own. And it wasn’t possible that when the North declared no slaves, that the South freed everyone. Life never worked like that.

Who did the officials think they were fooling?”

“Steven. Steven!” the lawman yelled. The blonde’s gaze met the policeman again. “Get in the car – I’m taking you home.” His hissed out a breath but obeyed.

The car slowly pulled up to the curb. An old Victorian house stood upon dead grass, weeds peeking up everywhere. The old gate in front swung freely, never locking together. He stared at the house, bemused.

It was nothing of his memory. The old, falling panels were chipped away at the paint, and the windows were boarded up. The door hung awkwardly, the screen being the only wall between inside and out.

“Steven, you’re not lying, right?” asked the officer.

The boy shook his head and ran his arm across his eyes, book still in hand. He cleared his throat.

“No, I lived here. Mom and Dad, too,” he said, his voice thicker but not noticeably. He sighed and got out of the car. “They must have moved.”

Steven stood in front of the gate. His eyes were dim and glossed. He breathed heavily as the minutes passed.

A man, not taller than he, and a woman of equivalent size were swinging together on the porch, her head resting on his chest and their fingers interlocked. A child, maybe two years, ran across the groomed yard. The young couple smiled as the child chased a butterfly.

His head turned the opposite direction as his eyes began to sting, tears wanting out. He sniffled and faced the police officer.

“This was my house. I’m home,” he stated, pulling his sleeve over his eyes. “Please, I’m walking inside.” His gaze settled back on the house and its make up.

The inside was dark, dusty. His mind dwelled in old memories, but his eyes focused on the destroyed remains. The floorboards creaked with every step. The air was thick, almost heavy, on his throat. His fingers ran over the dust-covered surfaces. He found a real piano – a rare find from the present day. The stool was wobbly as Steven sat on it, but allowed him the glory of playing. Sweet notes kissed the silence and the tune danced around aimlessly in the house.

But to Steven, this house was nothing more than a hollowed hole. A hollowed hole with horrible memories in every spot. He was vaguely aware of the officer behind him.

“I don’t think they live here anymore,” said the officer.

“I assumed they didn’t. Last that I saw of them, she had a brain tumor and he was in depression.” Steven’s heart dropped. “They’re both probably dead.”

“I’m sorry.” The officer placed a hand on Steven’s shoulder. Although Steven wanted to shout at the man, he resisted quietly.

Steven stood up from the piano bench.

“Well, I guess I’ll go back home, then, if no one here for me,” he announced, all previous traces of sorrow and regret gone. He started walking back out the door.

“No, I have to take you to the station,” the officer urged.

“Look, officer,” Steven turned around, facing him again, “I don’t need to go anywhere but where I live. It’s as simple as that.” He turned back and walked out the door. Once outside, he ran.

When the cop finally realized what had happened, Steven was already too far gone.

The old building was the same huge, vast area it had been since Steven first visited it years ago. It was his new home – where nothing went wrong.

But as Steven entered the creaky doors, he realized that he would have to move. The cops knew where to look for him, and the place was edging having to be condemned.

A hard sigh escaped his lips as he sat down on his couch. He took a long look around his used to be haven.

An idea struck him hard in the head.

A crackling torch, stored in the back of the warehouse next to the fire distinguisher, roared to life and Steven held the nozzle towards the vacant area. Orange and red flames grew everywhere, licking its path before moving on. Steven did not smile as he lit the building, nor was he frowning. A blank stare was plastered on his pale face. It was not a façade, but merely how he felt about the matter.

He brushed his newly dyed hair out of his eyes and watched his haven be destroyed. The sound of silence was promising; no one to yell at him, scold him, baby him. His eyes lingered on the house before turning to his small sack. He slung it over his shoulder and began walking.

Where to go, where to go, he mused as he started walking away.

As the young boy gave way to his hunger, he studied the area. Many stores were lines up, one after the other and at an occasional corner, a food place.

He ordered his food quickly, not wasting anytime with unimportant decisions. When asked his him, he froze. He couldn’t use the name he had; he could be discovered too fast.

“Ransom,” he said, recovering from thoughts. The waiter eyed him but dismissed it. As the waiter walked away, Ransom swore to himself.

“Idiot!” he hissed. “That was stupid of me. Idiot! Moronic! How could I have let something like that slip?” His fists clenched tight. His nails dug into his skin, his pulse beating furiously through his nails.

He relaxed moments later. His fists let up; his nails close to breaking the skin. His expression eased up subconsciously; Ransom had no clue what he looked like on his face.

Maybe, he thought firmly, maybe Ransom is the name I need. Sort of threatening but not really. And no one would know the name.

“Ransom?” the chef called out.

As Ransom came back from retrieving his food, he thought, What a weird restaurant.