He wasn't born a villain : no one is

People are not born villain's : they're made

He wasn't always like this. Feared. Hunted. Wanted. He used to be a normal boy, living a life within the walls of legality and walking the path towards greatness. High grades and a reputation carefully built. You could almost call him the embodiment of an angel. He used to enjoy running on the tracks or scribbling on pages.

That was years ago though. Before the pain. The sadness. The emptiness. The loneliness. The thirst and need for revenge. Before she died to the hands of the law. 

It was a normal day, the drab routine he had grown to love and feel accustomed to. It was. 

That was until the fateful phone call. 

His mother, sweet, young and perfect, had apparently been caught committing a crime he didn't dare utter. He remembered the tears that had fallen that day, creating a glossy stain on his cheeks. That day felt like it stretched for eternity, never passing. Time seemed to stop like a fragile glass shattering, breaking, no longer working. Instead in shards. Like him.

The weeks dragged on. Lawyer after lawyer, court case's almost every day. It was draining. He was a phone at low battery, continuously warning that he was going to run out. Maybe he was. Maybe he wanted nothing more than to be greeted by oblivion, the torture of uncertainty too much. It was suffocating.

Finally, she lost. Condemned to life imprisonment. He hated it. Hated the unfair trials. The bias. The fact that his life was fractured, fragmented into joy and sadness, loss and hope. She was his everything. Kept him grounded, safe, cared and loved for. Now she was leaving him.

It wasn't until two years later that the court had another trial, armed with more evidence. He thought it was just fake news to spite the already insubstantial woman prison had shaped her into. The result knocked the breath out of him. With this new "proof" the court had managed to sentence her to death. She was going to die. Out of his life for good.

He fell apart, finally letting the shards of hope he was trying to glue together break.

He went rogue.

Death after death of any jury present at the court that day, blood gushing and painting his world a darker crimson with each death. With every blood soaked knife or strangled last breath, he became more bent on power. Wanted posters littering the street. Day became a poison, dangerous and deadly if one wrong sip, cut, walk made it clear he was a fugitive.

That's what he was. A fugitive. Running from the clutches of the law, murderers masked with innocence. He had always found the notion infuriating. These men and women condemned to a life of nothing, for no, lack of better word, life. For the embrace of death to grow through their body, crawl into their heads and gently pull them into a dark void. Yet those who take the lives are never punished, never executed like those they do exactly that. By no means are those people innocent, but everyone has their own story. Of hurt. Of grief. He himself the same.

He watched the day said officers, innocent angels of good, laid her to rest. She didn't get a choice. No chance to plead, to beg, to cry, she was gone before that was possible. Shot. She didn't scream. Just took it. He admired that. Not giving these forces of evil, powered and encouraged by the devil, the satisfaction to scrutinize her vulnerability as she slumped in pain.

Her candle doused.

Years later he joined her. 

Same story. 

Same day. 

Same way.

His story lived on though. Taught in lessons to never let yourself go down that path. That those people are born vile and uncaring. That every death was in vain. That every decision you make from the first death will hurt and haunt you.

But it isn't true. Is it? These people we perceive as villains aren't born like that. Not born monsters and a disgrace. They aren't born just to die to the jurisdiction of saints. No. Each one has their story. Their own grief. Something that hurt and tore them apart so much that their only outlet was violence.

No one is born as a villain, forced to play the part of society that's stopped by those "born" the hero's. No. Society shapes everyone's story, writes their chapters and decides their fate. 

Society writes out stories.

It wrote her's.

It wrote his. 

Don't let it write yours.

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My first non-fanfiction, original book thing.

      Hope you enjoyed something a bit different!

Tj xx