Neither Heaven Nor Hell

Prologue: Feelings Bite

Before he started hitting me, my father told me about the day I was born, and the day my mother died. Her pregnancy was uneventful, with the occasional bout of morning sickness and mild cravings. She was a tall, slim woman, with auburn hair and sea blue eyes. On my birthday, her pale skin had a sheen of sweat, and her beautiful voice cried out in pain as my father drove us to the hospital.

He is a short, stocky man in his late thirties, black hair flicked with silver, green eyes, and tan skin. His deep, gravelly voice reassured my mother as we arrived and were admitted. After six hours of intense labor, I opened my eyes to the world and released a cry, announcing that I had arrived. I was swaddled and passed to my mother, who smiled and kissed my head, whispering, "Hey, Jacob." something wet splashed onto my face, and it wasn't until later that I realized that it was a tear. She passed me up to my father, who began laughing and smiling widely.

A loud beeping began to sound from the heart monitor, and my mother's breathing sped up. A nurse took me from my father's arms and led me from the room. Later (I can't remember how much later), my father came to see me, alone, his eyes red-rimmed and shoulders drooped. He picked me up and mumbled about mom and some long words like "pulmonary embolism".

For the first ten years, he took great care of me, taking me to school and smiling a lot. One day after coming home late from school, however, my father stumbled over to me and asked, in a slur, where I had been. When I tried to reply, he brought a hand across my face and yelled that I shouldn't lie to him. As the years went by, I began to resemble my mother more and more, inheriting her blue eyes, height, and pale skin. I also gained my father's raven-black hair and his deep, melodic voice. The beatings increased in severity, until a year ago. I hit him back, breaking his nose and screaming that I'd had enough.

Since then, he's yelled that my mother's death was my fault and I shouldn't exist. These statements leave scars across my arms and voices in my head, constantly reminding me of what life should be: non-existent. I try to be away from him as much as possible, and when I absolutely have to be home, I live with earbuds in, cranked to eardrum-shattering volume. Tonight is a dance, one where I'm scheduled to play with a few other people. One of whom is my best friend, Jason Blake.

Jace was the first person to notice the black eyes I had, and the bruises on my arms. He got me into most of the music I listen to regularly, and he gave me my first guitar four years ago. Since then, I've worked hard to play with the skill I do, and my music has been compared to Kurt Cobain and Brent Smith. The people I'll be working with are all good friends of mine, and we're ready for tonight.