Angry Andy |A Murder Story|

𝕥ꫝꫀ ᥇ꫀᧁⅈꪀꪀⅈꪀᧁ...

Alone.

That's how we'll start this story, and that's how we'll end this story because that's how we live, isn't it? We live alone, we die alone, and then everything else is just an illusion. I'm not the only one that knows this.

We start off on a rather bleak scene—a boy walking down the street, black jacket and hoodie pulled up over his head. The silky blackness that surrounded him did nothing to help his mood that was turning from mere sadness to an overbearing anger that wouldn't go away.

Where the cool air should've calmed him, it only made his pulse rise and his temper flare. Where the delicate pitter-patter of rain against the pavement should've gave him a cautious bit of sanity, made his blood boil beneath his skin.

The rain dripped down onto him, soaking him through the hoodie he was wearing. He should've remembered the weather, but he was too upset when he left his house to even contemplate such petty things as the weather.

He could still feel the anger clawing at his insides, warming his blood and making him see red. He could still feel the outline of his fathers boot on his back, feel the hands wrapped around his throat as his father talked to him.

You shouldn't have been born, boy. You were a mistake. I hate you. The words echoed in his mind as he walked, chewing angrily on his lip as he felt the anger sinking deeper into his mind. He knew he should be trying to control it—knew only bad things could come from losing his temper. But it was a nice, welcomed change from his usual stupor. He could almost feel alive.

He could feel his heart beating in his chest, feel his breath as he took each step in determination.

The chill of the air set in, but it did nothing to calm the murky darkness swimming in his heart—his soul. He had always told himself to fight it, to be better than it. But that murky blackness seemed like the only escape.

Some would turn to drugs, but he couldn't afford the addiction. Some would turn to alcohol like his father, but the thought of being similar in any way to the man who helped create him made him feel empty. Some would turn to hurting themselves, but as inviting as the thought of putting a bullet between his eyes was, there was one more inviting.

Revenge.

Finally getting the upper hand in their conversations. Finally stopping his abuse, his neglect, and his pain. Finally telling the old bastard that helped create him exactly what he thought of the lowly piece of scum.

That lowly piece of scum would be at home right now, drinking himself into an apathetic torpor. He'd be stumbling around drunk, like some sort of heathen. When he walked through the door, there'd be a huge mess left where the man he'd been taught to call father had beaten him to near unconsciousness.

But this time instead of biting his tongue, cleaning the mess and retreating to his room just to repeat the same process all over again the next day, or if somehow his father was feeling merciful, next week, he'd take revenge on the old bastard.

He was not a husband, not a father, not a man. He is just a pig. A low down dirty piece of garbage who'd rather spend his life away in a cheap bar on the corner of town than one minute in the same room with his son.

His mother wasn't much better. Though she never took part in the physical violence, she sure did do her fair share of mental and emotional abuse. She watched as his father brutally beat him nearly daily, never saying a word in his defence. She even had her fair share of degrading comments under her belt.