Dark Side

Chapter One

❝ᴱᵛᵉⁿᵗᵘᵃˡˡʸ, ᵃˡˡ ᵗʰᵉ ᵖⁱᵉᶜᵉˢ ᶠᵃˡˡ ⁱⁿᵗᵒ ᵖˡᵃᶜᵉ.

ᵁⁿᵗⁱˡ ᵗʰᵉⁿ, ˡᵃᵘᵍʰ ᵃᵗ ᵗʰᵉ ᶜᵒⁿᶠᵘˢⁱᵒⁿ, ˡⁱᵛᵉ ᶠᵒʳ ᵗʰᵉ ᵐᵒᵐᵉⁿᵗ,

ᵃⁿᵈ ᵏⁿᵒʷ ᵗʰᵃᵗ ᵉᵛᵉʳʸᵗʰⁱⁿᵍ ʰᵃᵖᵖᵉⁿˢ ᶠᵒʳ ᵃ ʳᵉᵃˢᵒⁿ.❞

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The boy walked at a smart pace, his highly polished shoes tapping on the hard pavement. He turned sharply to the left, onto Elmwood Street. Humming a haunting tune under his breath, he started walking down the street, carefully observing his surroundings.

He stopped in front of the 13th house, stepping on the freshly mown lawn. After taking the mail from the mailbox, he knocked softly on the door.

The door was opened by a dark-haired woman with soft features. They looked so strikingly alike that she could only have been his mother.

'Alex, you're finally home.' she smiled, letting him step in.

The boy smiled briefly, then he handed his mother the mail. 'Did it arrive yet?' he asked, trying to disguise his excitement.

'Not yet, Alex,' said the woman fondly. 'but don't worry, you're just turning eleven tomorrow anyway. You're much too excited.'

He shook his head lightly, strands of dark hair falling into his face. 'Am not.'

His mother chuckled softly. 'Whatever you say, Alexander.'

He smiled a thin smile, then he climbed up to his bedroom.

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His bedroom was not your average teenage hangout.

It had dark walls, multiple bookshelves full of read and reread and a million times reread books, a king-sized bed with dark green satin sheets and dozens of pillows, and a desk overflowing with unfinished poems, stories that never ended, and sketches that were half done.

That's what Alex was. A boy born with lots of beginnings but very few, handpicked endings.

A black cat was curled up on the neatly made bed, asleep. The ten-year-old boy petted it tenderly on the head then approached his desk.

He sat at his desk, fiddling with his quill. Then, an idea struck him and he began sketching.

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Alex's lips quirked upwards as he lifted his finished drawing from the clutter of parchment underneath.

He had drawn himself, and it was like looking into a mirror.

His dark locks of hair were draped magnificently against his forehead, his eyes were sparkling on the parchment, and his lips were curved in a small smile.

He felt exhilarated, although he did not show it. He had finally finished something, and it made him feel proud of himself. For once.

Even though his mother had never once doubted him, or judged his unfinished works, he had always had that one fear that would keep him up all night.

What if I wasn't good enough?

It irked him to think that he couldn't be perfect, that it was inhuman to achieve perfection.

He wanted to make his mother proud of him, and even though she loved him for who he was, he wanted to be better. He wanted to be the best.

That was his one flaw, he doubted himself as much as he did others.

And little did he know, that one flaw would hover between helping him up, or bringing him down.