We're No Heroes

Chapter One - Memories

The Murphy house sat on a hill, nestled in a forest on the very outskirts of the town. It was a lovely old house in its prime, though it had long since been abandoned. The windows had been shattered by a storm, the walls softened and sagged from age, and the floors had a lush carpet of moss. Birds nested in chandeliers, grouping together so closely they looked more like bushes hanging from the ceiling. A house so old and so empty became the town's local legend: stories of ghosts and monsters echoed in their ears, warning tales that kept the children away and lured brave young adults to its doors. In hushed tones they spoke of lost spirits wandering its halls, shrieking and moaning because they could not leave this world.

Nobody said anything about the boy in the house that was still very much alive.

***

The boy plodded into what might have been a kitchen, hefting a backpack rattling with cans of food. He dumped his pack on the floor and collapsed into a molding chair, his wings wrapping him in a warm embrace. He was so tired of being alone. He wanted to go back. It had been so long since he left, and the pangs of loneliness in his chest were growing unbearable.

A creak echoed through the house. He took his head from his hands and listened intently.

...

Another creak. The boy sat bolted upright, his eyes wide and darting around the room for a weapon. He settled for a rusty-looking breadknife. He crept from the kitchen (bedroom? family room? was this even a breadknife what happened in this house) and crawled to the stairs. He scanned the floor below.

Must've been a mouse, then. This house was creepy, but then again, so was he. That was the whole reason he was kicked out, right? He smiled bitterly to himself and turned to walk back to the kitchen.

A loud crash emanated throughout the hall.

"MOTHERFUCKER!"

A seemingly-female voice rang out and scared the living daylights out of the boy. So much so, in fact, that when the boy heard it, he jumped backwards. It was instinctual and would've worked if not for three flaws: first, that the voice came from behind him, and he was jumping towards the threat; second, that the voice came from under him as well, and that jumping away would do no good; and third, because he had somehow forgotten that he was crouching on the top stair.

He bounced from step to step while desperately grasping for a handhold and catching nothing but thin air. It was a rather large house; the Murphy sisters were attorneys and had nobody but themselves to raise. Thus, they were exceedingly wealthy. It was a rather large house, yes; and with it, came rather large staircases.

He landed at the bottom and curled up for a moment, dizzy and in pain from having fallen down an entire flight of stairs. The breadknife had, unfortunately, fallen from his hand when he unwittingly jumped backwards.

He groaned and sat up. And immediately remembered that there was a goddamn crazy person trying to break into his house get up now. He cringed as he rubbed a soft spot developing on his shoulder and shuffled over to where he thought the sound came from.

...

Of course. They'd smashed a window.

The door was open. It would've been so much easier to open that.

dumbass.

He looked around the room. It struck him, how unnerving the room looked. Broken boards and glass from the window lay on the floor, with rusty nails decorating the corners. Something scuttled through the walls.
It seemed a room not unlike one where the white girl would die in a horror film. His gaze locked on the broken nails, wondering why there were so many nails just scattered about, he reached down to flick a mosquito off of his knee.