Vincent

Chapter 1

Content Warning: violence/murder, drug use/abuse, vomiting, blood

Vincent ran from home when he was only 12 after having murdered his mother. He didn't mean to, of course; he was aiming for his brother who moved out of the way right as Vincent lunged at him, which ended up stabbing their mother in the throat. Vincent hated his brother to begin with, but after that, the only thing he could think of whenever his brother's face entered his mind was that he wanted to slash his throat and watch him choke to death on his own blood. But for now, Vincent was just on his own, in an old abandoned building surrounded by broken glass and rotting wood. Brine City was supposed to be a utopia, but Vincent saw through its mirage, all of the smoke and lies blinding the other citizens; this place was nothing but a hoax, no better than the world outside, shrouded in hate, misery, and pain.

It was when Vincent turned thirteen that he had salvaged enough money to get a motel room. The owner was an old friend of his mom's so he let Vincent stay without having to worry about paying any routine fees, save for the initial entry cost. Previously, Vincent had gotten hooked on a sort of hallucinogen made by one of his brother's friends, with whom he was now unable to get back in contact. It wasn't like any other type of hallucinogenic drug where the effects wear off after an amount of time with no signs of addiction, no; Vincent knew there was some sort of lasting damage on his brain causing him to think differently than usual. And he needed more of it.

Any time Vincent looked in the mirror, his reflection appeared distorted. Vincent felt like what he was looking at didn't suit him anymore, that he still looked too approachable and boyish in comparison to the bitterness that came from his mouth and his thoughts.

Scraping up nearly the rest of his money he stole from the safe in his mother's house, he went to the tattoo parlour on the other side of town. He spent nearly the whole day there explaining what he wanted and getting it done then and there. He had to lie about his age, of course, but the heavy circles under his eyes and his height helped them buy into the ruse of him being eighteen. By the end of the day, Vincent was back in the motel, sitting on the floor thinking. He finally went to his bathroom mirror to see the results, though he had already been home for two hours. The skin under his eyes were tattooed the same as his mouth, his eyes were red and his ears had been cut and resewn together to form points on the ends that resembled those of elves in a fantasy story, but with his now glaring eyes and blackened skin, he appeared more to be some sort of ghoulish villain.

That's better, he thought to himself. Despite the black stitches in his ears and ink in his eyes, nothing hurt. Not physically, anyway. The longer he looked in the mirror, the more the thought lingered that he still looked too much like his brother. That scumbag. Vincent left quickly and angrily with enough money for a kitchen knife.

"Just the knife?" the cashier asked.

"Yes, just this," Vincent fondled in his pocket to pull out what cash he had left.

"If you don't mind me asking-"

"They're tattooed."

"W-what?"

"You were going to ask about the eyes, right? They're tattooed." Vincent grabbed the knife and left. "It's rude to stare."

He unpackaged the blade on the way home, throwing the empty plastic on the side of the road as he walked. He examined the knife, which was larger than the ones he had back when he lived with his family. Larger than the knife he threw at his brother.

Vincent heard someone in an alleyway to his left. He approached the sound which was a man not too much older than his brother, who was four years older than Vincent. He didn't seem to notice the younger boy; he was too focused on something in his hands that looked like a sticker sheet.