First Fire

It was a bright, Sunday morning.

The clouds were gone, leaving a sky so blue it was comparable to the ocean. At least, on the outside it seemed nice.

"James! Get out of bed, the family's here!"

The raspy voice came from none other than the father. He was 110 pounds of pure hate. He was almost too much for a frail, 15-year-old boy to deal with.

Almost too much.

"Coming!" James called.

He scrambled out of bed and walked over to his dresser where he pulled out some clothes and quickly threw them on.

He was about to pull a shirt over his head when the door to his small room burst open.

"You come when I tell you to come!" Snarled a man that looked buff enough to lift elephants.

The man grabbed James and flung him into the wall, bashing his head in the process.

"I was coming," James tried to protest, fighting back tears. Tears showed pain, pain showed weakness, and weakness was not tolerated.

"Don't give me that bullshit. You knew exactly what you were doing," the father kicked his son in the side. "Now get your ass down there and you'd better be on your best behavior!"

The father slammed the door on his way out.

James got up as quickly as he could, not caring about how badly his head hurt.

He pulled his shirt on and took one last look at himself in the mirror. His dark hair against his extremely pale skin made him seem like a ghost. His almost black eyes didn't compliment that much.

"Boy!" His father called from downstairs.

"Coming!" James called frantically.

He scampered down the steps and was me with one of the most disgusting sights he's ever seen.

His Auntie Bertha had her tongue down his father's throat.

"Dad!" James yelled in shock.

The two of them broke apart.

"Oh, don't worry Jered, your son will learn to respect people's privacy sooner or later," Aunt Bertha said.

She was comparable to a beached whale that learned how to apply makeup and speak semi-fluent English.

"Better be sooner," Jered said.

"Sorry, dad. I just came down the stairs, it's not-"

Jered shoved his son up against the wall as the whale woman continued on enjoying her drink like nothing out of the ordinary was happening.

"Sorry, dad?" Jered questioned, pinning James to the wall, nearly choking him.

"Sorry, sir." James managed.

"That's more like it," Jered flashed his son a smile full of yellow teeth before releasing him, letting him crumple to the floor where he sat and retched.

"You need to put a handle on that boy, Jered," spoke the whale. "I don't like his attitude."

Well maybe I don't like your existence, James thought to himself.

"He's a tough nut," Jered went on. "But nothing I can't crack."

He flashed James a dirty look before turning back to the whale to continue his make-out session.

Thoroughly disgusted, James headed back to the living room where he found his mother's side of the family, or as he would call it, the mentally stable side.

"There he is!" Screamed a little girl. She ran up to James and wrapped her arms around his leg.

"Hey there!" James said, patting her head.

"They've missed ya' greatly, y'know," droned a old, deep voice.

James turned and found himself facing his grandfather.

"Yeah, sorry. I've been really busy. It's getting hard to visit."

The girl constricting his leg scampered off to join the other younger children.

"Is the old man giving you trouble? Ever since Athena died, well, he hasn't been the same," Grandfather wheezed. "And if I had a clue or two, I'd make you come and live with me in an instant. I could smell the alcohol on him from three miles away, I swear on it."

"No, no," James waved him off. "I appreciate the offer, Artis, but I can't accept it. I have school, remember?"

"Can't you drive, boy?" Artis asked incredulously.

"Yeah, but I use Dad's car. Without it, I'm screwed."

James hung his head.

It was true, he wanted out. He wanted to leave this Hell-hole of a house.

That is, if one could even call it a house.

It was a run-down old bar that James' father had bought while drunk. He plopped a beer stained mattress in one of the upstairs bedrooms and shoved his 13-year-old son into it, locking it, and telling him this was his new home.

"Son," Artis put a hand on his grandson's shoulder, shattering his thoughts. "I know you don't have a choice, but this place is horrible. You shouldn't have to-"

Artis was cut off by an explosion that rocked the world.

James couldn't hear, he couldn't see, he couldn't move.

All was dark.

All was silent.