Born To Die Part One - The Case Chase

The Beginning of Beginnings

August of 1997 was a relatively normal summer month. Well, for the UK at least. It was mainly sunny and warm, with kids running little lemonade stands from their front drives or not experiencing the sheer boredom of Britain, holidaying to Greece or Majorca or whatever tickled peoples fancies. However, it rained on the fifteenth. Buckets of rain that never stopped, the skies brewing with the threat of a thunderstorm. Umbrellas came back out and people assembled puzzles inside and debated Oasis vs Blur.

However, it was a very different day for Jules (well, her name is Julietta, but if you called her Juliette, she would most likely crucify you) and Harold Rockwell. They had welcomed their first child just this morning, at the peak of the rainfall. The couple were a true, bony, pale, skinny and lanky. They both had masses of bright red hair, histories of horrible vision on both sides of the family, and were both just highly odd looking people.

Harold had a bristly moustache that he took very high care of, combing it in the mirror every morning. It felt like sandpaper if you ran your fingers over it, and Jules had constant beard rash all over her face due to his frankly horrible kisses. He dressed in exclusively dress shirts, sweater vests, odd patterned ties, tightly tailored trousers, long-toed leather shoes, and knee high work socks. His thick yet invisible eyebrows were always frowning. No, trust me, he was frowning in his wedding photos. His glasses were incredibly thick, like magnifying windows into another world. His face was just mainly eye. If you couldn't guess, he was an accountant.

Jules was similar yet opposite, running a women's health club that ran on Wednesdays and Fridays. She had a slightly greying grizzly mane of curls that reached her waist. She had a few pieces of hair that she had been plaiting for at least thirty years (since she was about five) with little pieces of jewellery in. However, she did not take proper care of these plaits, and they were becoming dreadlocks as time came on. She almost always wore patchwork harlem pants, large knitted ponchos, bright yellow anoraks and leather sandals in winter.

The couple had been wanting a baby since they met, believing they both had to "continue their bloodlines", despite Harold's sister having a child of her own. When the couple found out they would be having a baby, they were ecstatic. Especially when they found out he would be a little boy. Harold said he would be "a strong businessman who keeps the family accountancy firm going", and Jules said he would be "the next John Lennon". They even settled on the perfect name; Ashton George Rockwell.

Things went wrong when he was born. As soon as his first cries were heard, they expected a little boy to be handed to them. However, he was whisked away immediately to a different room, the doctors giving the couple disgusted looks. The woman who rushed the baby away was shielding him, shushing him gently. When he was returned, a timid little man poked his head around the door.

'Mrs. Rockwell?' The man's tone was shaking. Jules squeezed her husband's hand.

'Is our baby okay?' She asked, a worried expression on her face.

The doctor sighed deeply, regret spilling over his body, 'He's fine. But he... he's...'

'What's wrong?' Harold queried, his tone and thick orange moustache shaking. The little baby he presents them with is dressed and clean, his little features squished up in a sleepy expression. He looked normal, if not already bright ginger, a few odd curls poking from his pale skin. The parents peered over. And they saw it. A set of glossy, white, and soft wings were covering his minuscule body. They looked at each other, horror on their faces.

'The boy is magic. Would you still like to raise him?' The doctor asks.

'No, take it away. Those beasts repulse me. I will name him Ashton, and leave it at that,' Jules sneers, running a hand through her hair. Harold nods. The doctor nods solemnly, wheeling the child away. She pinches the bridge of her nose, sighing heavily.

'It's such a shame.'

'We'll try again.'

'What if it happens again?'

'We'll keep trying until we don't get a failure.'