Viper *muke*

3- Woke Up on the Wrong Side of Existence

(Sorry, but I am totally not sorry about anything that happens in this chapter whoops, love you guys)

I am completely, absolutely, one hundred percent fucked.

No matter what I do, no matter how damn hard I try I simply can't get that stupid, red-headed Michael fucking Clifford out of my head. Just the very thought of his soft, plump lips against mine, his pale skin under my hands, his bright green eyes staring into mine, it's driving me insane. Or more so, at least.

It's been three whole days, that's seventy-two hours, that's 4,320 minutes, 259,200 god damned seconds! He should be long gone from my mind, but he's not, completely the opposite actually, and now to make it worse I'm standing here outside of school like an idiot, contemplating whether to enter the hellish place or not. The speakers hummed to life and a loud chime spread through the air, cueing the students that they had six minutes to get to class before the next tardy bell would ring.

I sighed heavily, not bothering to clear the distinct scent of cigarettes that clung to my clothes, a white Blink-182 shirt, and a pair of ripped dark wash jeans. I hesitated for just a few moments longer before pulling the front door to the school open, adjusting my backpack as I headed toward my first class, pushing through the crowd with my head down, and I swung the door open, only to be face to face with none other than a certain green-eyed red head.

Michael's eyes widened in surprise, but before he could say anything I pushed past him, not daring to look the older boy in the eye as I entered the classroom, moving to sit in the back right corner. I sat in the corner of each classroom, as strange as it may sound, it makes me anxious to have someone sitting behind me. It's your natural instincts, son, trust them over anything, they'll keep you sharp, just like your old man.

My dear old dad's voice echoed in my mind, my dad would probably win the award for 'Least Loving and Caring Father in the World', but what can I expect when I have a sociopathic serial killer as a father. I could never love that man, but he taught me everything I know, and even though his whereabouts have been unknown to me for the past four years, the taxes for the house are always paid even though I'm the only one who lives there now.

From time to time large stacks of money will appear on the kitchen counter, but every time dear old daddy came for a visit there would be absolutely no evidence he was ever there, other than the little gifts he would leave. Well, at least I think they're gifts, sometimes he'd help me out by sending some photos and information of an easy kill, sometimes he'd just leave a fat stack of cash, sometimes he would give me a new dagger, or other various weapons.

There was one time he left a sleek, silver gun, along with a muffler that looked like it had to cost at least a couple hundred bucks, with a note that stated, 'Just in case things get rough, now be a good boy and burn this message.' That was the only time my dad showed his trust in me, handwritten letters that if given to the police, may eventually be a piece of damning evidence, he knew I wouldn't turn him in, it had nothing to do with caring for each other, but mutual respect between two murderers.

I snapped back into reality as a large textbook slammed onto the wooden desk I was sitting on, my eyes darting up to see my math teacher, Mrs. Nora with an annoyed look on her leathery, wrinkled face, and when she spoke her voice quivered, another clue to show just how old she was, "If you would care to pay attention, mister Hemmings, maybe you will learn something that can help you pass this class."

Anger burned in my chest at her rude tone, but I simply smiled softly, my eyes glaring darkly into hers, as I murmured a gentle, "My apologies, ma'am."