Axel

Chapter 1

Axel

There are many interpretations of the word bad.

Look it up, the dictionary tells you. Of poor quality or a low standard. Unpleasant. Unwelcome. Not such as to be hoped for or desired. Not quite what you'd expect, is it? Especially when applied to a person. A bad person. A bad boy. Somebody who breaks all the rules, fucks all the girls, holds a middle finger up to society at every opportunity because the world is just so shitty and no one understands the internal struggle. The pain.

Bla, bla, fucking bla.

Who am I, really? Alexander Joseph (that's right, my middle name is fucking Joseph) Hawthorne. Am I a bad boy? I certainly fit the stereotype. Tattoos, check. Broken rules, check. Girls, check. Middle finger, check. But am I really bad, as in - all bad?

I think not.

I hope not.

I walk out of South Bridge Prison into the strong September rays of sunlight outside, rolling my shoulders and working out a crick in my neck. I mean, I feel fine physically. I've seen guys do this in movies when they get out of jail, so why not? 

I have the clothes on my back, a pocket full of letters and my wallet, that's it. I should get some new clothes. I should get a fucking clue. What. The fuck. Do I do. Now?

God, I miss Lake Michigan sometimes.

I look over my shoulder, chewing my metal-free lip and throwing one last smirk back at the prison. The SBPD are fucking idiots and so was the judge in my case. Whoever thought remanding me in prison custody for a crime no one had any fucking way of proving I committed should really be fired. They clearly never read the Bill of Rights. I should never have been imprisoned on any charges relating to the Radium Room, and luckily for me some sharp eyed administrator finally realised that, regardless of Scar dropping her complaint in the end. So because of the clerical error (that's what they're choosing to call this mistake. My ass) and the horrifyingly embarrassing oversight of said error, I also have a nice fat check sitting inside my wallet, just itching to be deposited into my account. Compensation for the time I'll never get back. A lot of it. It'll add nicely to the little nest egg my asshole father's death provided me, as well as the money Hunter felt obligated to gift me. Not having to resort to theft and drug dealing for the time being suits me, I could get used to the whole having money thing.

I laugh to myself as I turn away from the jail, because it is fucking hilarious that I've been financially compensated for wasted time inside in regards to the Radium Room - for which I am one hundred percent fucking guilty of - even though I had a custodial sentence to serve in regards to Jace's shooting - for which I am actually innocent. What an awesome criminal justice system, huh?

But whatever. No point dwelling on any of that shit.

I'm out now. 

Time to get busy living. I've wasted enough time dying already.

My feet start moving and around twenty minutes later I'm out of the outskirts and in the city. Awesome. Hey, South Bridge. Been a while. Missed you. Not. I fucking hate this city and I won't be staying here very long. But for now, I have nothing but time and money. I guess I could do something normal like stop by a Starbucks and buy myself some coffee and a doughnut. Well shit, time to get crazy.

I remind myself that I hate chain stores, so I rule Starbucks the fuck out (like that ugly green mermaid doesn't make enough money as it is, she doesn't need my hard earned - pah! - cash too) and opt for a shifty looking independent coffee house. Graffiti on the exterior, broken neon sign hanging in the window informing me that the run-down-as-fuck place is in fact open, not a customer in sight. Looks great. I step in the door and breathe deep. The place smells like bland coffee, weed and burnt toast. Honey, I'm home.