SOCIOPATH | Five Hargreeves

•~-~• PROLOGUE •~-~•

"MISSHAPEN GUIDANCE WILL lead to astronomic failures," Angel's father told her, staring up at a seemingly interesting cloudy sky.

A little girl sat next to him — nothing more than the age of four — leaned up against the back of a stone bench. Her arms crossed her body, slowly rising and falling with her chest. (H/c) hair flowed over her shoulders, and she followed it down to her (s/c) arms. A moment of silence passed between the two. She blinked and listened to the various sounds around her; birds chirping, wind howling, trees rustling. Her legs were too short to reach the ground so they swung back and forth.

"Not every child has a good life, Number Eight," the old man blathered.

She craned her neck to peer up at the old oak tree, remembering the conversations her father and her brother, Number One, had underneath it.

"You ought to consider yourself lucky. You have something most kids don't,"

The child turned her head to look at Sir Reginald Hargreeves, whose face always seemed expressionless.

"Powers?" The small girl squeaked.

"No," Reginald replied immediately. "A shadow."

She furrowed her eyebrows, "But, doesn't everyone have a shadow?"

"Everyone has a shadow, Number Eight, but yours is not like mine," he frowned at her. "Your shadow is truly remarkable, even for someone like you."

Angel glanced at a tall, dark figure standing next to the house. She habitually drowned out her father's words as the figure pulled her into a trance. The silhouette remained still, almost dead, but she knew it was alive. This figure wasn't familiar, but it didn't feel unfamiliar. It drilled into her skin, and the hairs on the back of her neck perked up. It ate at her flesh, carving a hole too far deep for her good. It left a permanent scar on her skin, burning her from the inside out, always leaving the same symbol.

Untangling her arms, she examined her hands. She could hear the skin sizzle and pop as the glowing red mark chiseled its way out of her tissue. It left a small white shape on the surface of her palm, camouflaging into her skin color, and contorting into the shape of a five-pointed star. As much as it had scared her, it also intrigued her. Her eyes darted back up to the shadow with a curious gaze. She frowned, seeing it no longer watching her. She stared into the brick, silently pleading for the mystery to reappear.

"Number Eight!"

The girl jumped at her father's voice and let out a little gasp. She cocked an eyebrow wondering what she did wrong.

"How do you expect to fight crime in this world if you can't even pay attention to a conversation for more than five seconds?" Reginald scolded.

Angel looked down at her lap in shame. She could feel his scolding through her skull. She thought she'd be used to the stare by now.

Sir Reginald Hargreeves quickly snatched her hand, earning a whimper from her. His eyes traced over every inch of her palm. He furrowed his eyebrows and took a mental note of his observation.

"Astonishing!" Hargreeves exclaimed.

She grimaced at the word. Every time he exclaimed it, training would ensue and she would go right back to hating him. But this time, Reginald had something else in mind.

"The Devil..." he muttered.

•~-~•~-~•

"IF YOU ARE like Number Four, you must train like Number Four!" Sir Reginald Hargreeves proclaimed to Number Eight.

Number Four and Number Eight sat crisscrossed on the dusty floor of a mausoleum. The family wasn't of kin to them, but Sir Reginald Hargreeves used it for experimenting on his adoptive son, Klaus, or what Reginald called, Number Four. Klaus could commune with the dead, and only Angel had the insight into what this was really like for him.

Klaus' room was next to hers and at night she could hear his cries through the wall. He wanted the dead to leave him alone and let him sleep. No matter how many trials Sir Reginald Hargreeves conducted on the boy, he never truly got a grip on his powers. Instead, he wasted every day with a new intoxicating substance to drown out the voices, the screams, and the cries. Seemingly enough, it helped. His highs eased his late-night terrors, allowing him to sleep peacefully.

As for Eight, she may not have shared the gift with her brother, but Four had talked to her about what happens when he communes. Nothing like that had ever happened to her. She talked to him about seeing her shadow now and then. He offered to help her mysterious friend, but couldn't as no one appeared.

Eight had loved her brother as much as she did herself and grew close to him over time. He came to be the only one she was comfortable enough with to hear her voice. Klaus was there for her when their siblings called her insane after Reginald mentioned her as a failure for not being able to see her ghost. Number Four had consoled her after their brothers and sisters made fun of her for being able to see a 'spirit.' Yet, they made no comments toward Klaus

Five was the worst about it, slipping a bedsheet over his head, and dancing around making ominous noises, calling her so much of a sociopath. She hated him for the torment, as she hated the others for not standing up for her. Every night, after the bullying stopped, she would sneak into Four's room and launch herself into his arms crying over something Five had said about herself.

Four was always there to coo into her ear, apologizing on his brother's behalf. He did all he could think of to help her, regardless of his problems. Despite his best efforts, it didn't stop her self-esteem from melting into a water puddle and evaporating into nothing but a shit-storm.

She quickly grew numb before realizing that every day in the Hargreeves' household had fallen into the same routine: wake up, breakfast, training, lunch, training, dinner, and bed. She felt like a tape recorder, rewinding and rewinding, being controlled by a torturous force.

She made multiple attempts to feel something again, but all had failed, so one night she snuck into Diego's bedroom, Number Two, stole one of his knives from his nightstand, and headed back to her room.

She pulled up her long, pale blue satin sleeve and stared at her (s/c) skin. She took a deep breath, and gently placed the knife to her flesh. She hesitated, and she blinked, pausing momentarily. Then, she pulled the steel along, breaking open the delicate area. Droplets of red rose to the surface.

She winced at the sting. Standing, she held onto her arm, not knowing if she should continue. Angel caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, and she frowned. I look pathetic. She thought. Taking away her pain and implanting it into an inanimate object was never a good form of therapy, she knew that, and yet, she couldn't help but drag the blade across her skin once more, and stare at the beautiful, colorful, raindrops of blood.

Her solemn stare lingered on her body. She lifted her shirt and pinched at the parts she didn't like, noting where she would abandon the unnecessary skin that hung loose. Boom, addiction. 

Then she thought of something Klaus once told her when they had a conversation about his drug use, "Addiction is like a good book. Once you start reading, you move to the second chapter, and then to the third. Then, next thing you know, you're done with the book and you start another one."

She picked the cool metal up from her bed and dragged it across the areas she would cut down, taking a mental note to finish the job in the future. And until that time came, a knife and a wild imagination would suffice.