My old laptop broke so I don't have my old documents which means that I won't be able to update Guardians or anything else anytime soon. However, I decided to start this new story so hopefully you guys like it!
Warning: there will be swearing, mild sexual content, and a lot of racism and prejudice in this story. These aren't MY opinions. Just the opinions of my characters. Enjoy!
Prologue
Even though she wasn't supposed to, Brea Davis ripped the thick bandage off her chest. She'd never been good at following orders. The skin where the bandage had been was angry and red, but the three tattooed ravens that descended her collarbone were sharp and pristine. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, taking in how the tattoos looked against her dark skin. Three ravens. Three, for the number of days she'd spent waiting at the hospital only to be told that she'd be going home alone. Three, for the number of days it had taken to sell the house and move in—temporarily—with her elderly neighbor, Charlie. Three, for the number of people who'd left her behind.
The trial itself had been quick. Randy Bames had confessed to all three murders. He'd only wanted cash. He had thought that the house was empty.
Five gunshots. Three in her father, one in her mother, and one in her younger brother. Brea had read the police report on her family. It had been in a neat folder, which Brea had pulled out of a neat box. The neat box had been stacked in a room with other neat boxes. Brea realized then that she wasn't really a person. Not really. She was just another neat folder, nearly indistinguishable from all of the others.
David Marshall flew backwards, his head reeling from his father's latest blow.
"You call that a punch?" Markus sneered, approaching David, who was scrambling back onto his feet. "Try again son, and get it right."
David let his fist fly out. At that moment, he hated everything. His absent mother for abandoning him; his father, for being an insane son of a bitch; his brother, Aron, for going to jail after nearly beating a black man to death. He also hated himself. For what he'd become. For what he'd done, and what he would do.
His fist connected, sending his six-foot-three father to the ground. Markus smiled up at his son and decided that, under his pretty face and wide, blue eyes that reminded him of the boy's mother, was the spirit of a fighter. The spirit of someone who could carry on in Aron's footsteps, and make the family proud.
"I think you're almost ready," Markus whispered. David paled and, not trusting his voice, strode out of his house. He got into his truck, and drove. In circles, really, because there was nowhere he felt like going. Besides, in Vidor, Texas, you couldn't get very far before having to turn around.
So what did you think? Please review! Even the littlest things help!