A/N: Thank you for checking this out! This is a rewrite of a story I started back in 2011. I have to do a graduation project for school and decided to write it again for that undertaking. A special thanks goes out to my amazing middle school English teacher / editor of this for helping me to love writing so many years ago :D

Slight warning: this story deals with Antisocial Personality Disorder, and therefore there is a lot of angst and dark material. Also, there are hints of a relationship between two individuals who are significantly differing ages. Just thought I'd mention those two things before you move on.

Thanks again and enjoy - Cat


My eyes were trained on the battered body at my feet, bile threatening to make an appearance. The woman lay limply on her side upon the pavement, blood dribbling from her nose and pooling slightly under her cheek. Not long from now her face would display a myriad of bruises and her neck would reveal a pair of hand prints. My handprints.

I took a tense breath as the reality of the situation began to sink in. On their own accord, my legs moved, propelling me away from the scene and into the night. Down the sidewalks I sprinted, pausing under a streetlight to catch my breath after what seemed to be a millennium of running. I doubled over heaving, bracing my palms against my thighs as I swallowed the painful lump that had arisen in my throat.

How could be I so foolish?! I screamed at myself over and over in my head, a feral snarl of frustration threatening to wake the neighborhood. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I'm such an idiot! I went too far! What did you think killing her would accomplish?! It won't make the problems go away!

It would only multiply them.

Abruptly I stood up and started to pace like a caged animal in short lines. I bit down my lip and tasted the metallic tang of blood, followed by the swipe of my fingers over the lower part of my face. They came back covered in red – oh yes, how could I have forgotten my own bloody nose? I must have looked ghastly enough to rival Hannibal Lector, though I was not keen to go searching for a mirror to confirm the notion. Nearly growling again when I poked at my nose and was rewarded with waves of pain shooting through my skull, I stepped out of the direct light and sank down into the night-dampened grass.

I shivered, for the air was brisk, and I was not dressed accordingly. Drawing my legs up to my chest, I placed my chin atop my knees and sat there, eyes filling with angry tears. Oddly enough, I felt no sadness - only foolishness at my inability to plan ahead.

"She deserved it…" I said in a choked whisper as I cried. "She deserved it…"

Until dawn I stayed next to that streetlight, trying to hold on to the sliver of hope that told me everything would be okay; that when the sun rose again all the blood and guilt and pain would disappear, and once again I would be meager Schuyler Holbrooke, sitting down to a breakfast with my father like nothing had ever happened. I longed for the sunrise to be the end of my mistakes.

But no. Everything was only just beginning.

She deserved it...