Pretty Little Savage

It blurs my reality as I lift my foot off the gas and just let the stolen ride be. Eventually, the Mustang comes to a slow stop in the middle of the road. Darkness in front of me and darkness behind. Much like my past and like my probable future. Here I am, sitting in a stolen car in the middle of nowhere with blood and tears on my face. I laugh, it's fucking funny as shit, stupidly funny. I laugh so loud and long and hard that my stomach begins to cramp. Something feels loose in my brain, like whatever had been keeping me semi sane has snapped and broken. The barrier is gone now and it feels fucking satisfying. My eyes slide to the side and I reach for the seatbelt as they land on the glovebox. I unbuckle myself, moving slowly as if my limbs have minds of their own. I press the button and it opens. My fingers find the handle of the gun I'd seen stashed in here the first time I'd ridden in this car. It's easy to pick it up, too easy. And though the gun feels heavy in my grasp, it feels right too. I lift it and point towards the windshield. I picture the guys, one by one, standing in a line in front of the twin beams of light pouring from the Mustang's headlights. What would I do if given the chance to kill him? Could I do it? Could I pull the trigger? Right now, I feel like it'd be all too easy to blow not just his but each of their fucking brains out. Because if it wasn't for the other two, I might never have met Dean Carter in the first place. My finger finds the trigger in question and smooths over it, but I don't press down. Instead, I lower the weapon, and after a moment, I put the gun back in the glove compartment, close it, and snap my seatbelt back into place. No, I'm not going to kill them. I've got better things planned for them. More torturous things. What I am going to do, however, is go back. Not to East Point, but to the place where it all began. There have been far too many people in my life who seem to think they have power over me, and it all starts there. First the past, then the present. Only then can I finally face the fucking future. Rules to live by. To look forward, I have to go back. Just once. Just this once. I put my foot back on the gas, and this time when I floor it, I know exactly where I'm going. Those boys, those sick, twisted, disgusting, perverted assholes, think they can sweep into my life and drag me through the carnage of hell. What they don't yet realize, though, is that I was born there, and I know exactly how to not only survive, but to fucking rise. One, Dean, 16 years old. Money is the ultimate weapon, money and power. What many people don't know is that all wealth is stained in blood. True power doesn't come without corruption. People fight, bleed, and die for money and power. No matter who you are or where you come from, it is the one undeniable factor of the future and what it holds. Because money is power, and power is blood, and I want both. Warm red liquid drips from my right nostril as I pant, my chest rising and falling. My father stands to the side, his cold eyes watching. Always fucking watching and waiting, either for me to prove myself his failure or his heir. There is only one choice. I refuse to be the first, so I must be the second. Taking the other man's neck in my grip, my muscles contract in my biceps as I smash his face into the concrete ground. Once, twice, three times, until he coughs out a groan beneath my grasp. The pain he must be feeling making the noise a broken imitation of what should be a long and labored sound. Only when it hits my ears do I release him and take a step back. I don't flinch when he coughs again, and this time, blood spews from between his lips, landing on the top of my brand new shoes, white splattered with blood. It seems to be the symbol of my family.