freaks | on hiatus

00 | pilot

"I don't suffer from insanity -- I enjoy every minute of it."
- Sherrilyn Kenyon -

[ P R O L O G U E ]
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MY FATHER THREW ME out of the car door when I was ten years old.

It was 1975, and we were driving back home from my grandparents house. My parents used to send us there every summer break, I figured, just to get rid of us for two months. My sisters and I didn't mind it, though. There was much to do at that cottage by Lake Utah.

We'd venture out into the woods, go for a swim, catch fireflies, and tell stories around the crackling bonfire every night.

But when father came to pick us up, the minute we entered the back of his rusty Ford Pinto, he'd start yelling at us. He was drunk again. I could smell the bitter alcohol in his breath as he breathed heavily.

The whole drive was thick with ephemeral heat and curse words.

I've always hated my parents. All the other kids at school seemed to have parents who cared about them, made them P&J sandwiches for lunch, and dressed them in nice clothes.

If we got to eat lunch three times a week, we were lucky. Our parents made us wear rags sewn from their own worn out clothing, and they reeked of mildew.

Usually, I stay silent. I keep my head down and my mouth shut, just like my sisters.

But that day, I remembered saying something along the lines of, "Why don't you just send us back? We like grandpa a lot more than you anyway."

And I knew, well before he turned around with his weather-beaten face contorted in anger, that I had said something I would immediately regret.

He called me an ungrateful piece of shit, reached over the driver's seat, grabbed me by the hair, and slammed my head against the window. Next thing I knew, the door was open and I was pushed out.

The sensation of my skin hitting the callous gravel was not a pleasant one.

I laid there for a while, by the roadside, until the car disappeared into the horizon. I poked at my bruises, wiped my blood onto my trousers, and dust myself off. It wasn't until three days later that the officers found me and asked who my parents were.

I didn't say anything. I never wanted to see them again.

So they brought me to an orphanage instead.

I couldn't stand it in that hell-hole. All the other children were undisciplined and dirty; with no regard to manners whatsoever.

However, my stay there was brief. About a year later, I was taken out and moved into a Youth Detention Center. Not entirely sure why, but I believe it might've had something to do with Vincent Brown.

He tried to eat my apple strudel while I wasn't looking, so I sunk my fork an inch deep into his sternum.

After they released me from my sentence, I had realized one thing - pain is nice, but inflicting it is even better. I suppose that's why I'm currently locked up in Vale Garden's Psychiatric Institution for the Mentally Insane.

You see, my father threw me out the car door when I was ten. So I threw him off the balcony, as a farewell present for his fiftieth birthday.

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Here's a little glimpse into the terrifying mind of Teddy Owen Hawkes for y'all.

I'm still working on planning out the story and developing all the characters, so I won't start updating until about mid-January in 2017. But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop writing 'A Cigarette for Cade', because that story is my main focus at the moment. If you haven't already, please be sure to check that out!

And just a heads up, I DO NOT CONDONE any of the bad actions or thoughts that take place in this story.
Please stick around, because I cannot wait to publish the first chapter of FREAKS.

Godspeed,
♕ sarah ♕