Probable multi-chapter story. We'll see if I can manage to write this without alarming anyone. Necessary disclaimer: I don't condone violence. Especially against innopcent victims. This is just a story idea I've had scrawled on papers a while. Reviews are always appreciated.

He'd been four when it happened. His mother had been twenty-seven. On the floor after kindergarten, he'd watched the news in confusion, uncertain of what was happening. His pretty young mother had scooped him up sobbing, and told him she hoped he'd never have to go through that. That thank the lord he was so young, and they lived so far away. Reading the subtitles on the screen, he'd gathered the deaths, and that someone was causing them. Even at four, he was advanced for his age.

At nine, he'd had his head stuffed in a toilet; he'd walked home in winter barefoot because his shoes were burnt with a stolen lighter. His haggard mother had yelled about the waste of good shoes and sent him to bed. He'd sat there, watching the ceiling with a scowl. It hadn't been fair. He knew this much. One child couldn't be held responsible for every little action made around them. And yet he was. It was injustice. At nine, he had the knowledge to make that decision; always a little ahead of the curve, his teacher had said.

Now, on the eve of his sixteenth birthday, he stood, shotgun pointing at the cans lined up in the back of the old MacMillan property. It was licensed and registered like everything else he owned. Hidden in the back of the largely ignored property, now the elderly couple no longer used it, his things waited for his arrival every weekend. His hag of a mother never noticed he was gone, and his marks and attitude kept every other question at bay. He had a plan, and no real reason to live.

He might only be sixteen, but he'd always been advanced for his age.