Guns For Hands: A Violent Haven

Chapter 1

 Emerson's POV

My life is any but extraordinary. It's not filled with tiaras and gumdrops. It's not a life out of a fairy tale, where nothing ever goes wrong. It's simply my mediocre struggle. I don't drive the newest car, I don't have the nicest clothes, and I'm sure as hell not daddy's little princess. For fuck's sake he didn't even bother to stick around. The other half of my genetic makeup, Douglas Carter, died in a car accident. I'm not going to get into detail because I truly don't even know the whole story, but he pretty much forced divorce papers upon my mother and stormed out commenting that he "needed to get out to live the rest of his life", which was ironically cut short.

We never really had a connection. Throughout the eleven years of my life that he was alive, I shared the breakfast table with a complete stranger. I never truly cared for my father. Sure I went to his funeral and even gave a speech, but I never cried once. I was just going to need to get used to the fact that it was just going to be my mother and I, it was kind of always this way for me anyway.

The lack of emotional communication between my mother and I worried her very much. She insisted I go to counseling because it was unhealthy to live a life with bottled up emotions. I agreed to go, feeding her a lie or two about how my appointments went. I never went. Therapy wasn't my solution. Writing was. I saved up the money she was paying my shrink to buy books, journals, even a new laptop to amplify my need to write. Soon enough I learned to plaster on a fake smile every once in a while to convince my mother that I was alright. That got me out of my therapy sessions mighty fast.

All of that reflects on my current bullshit filled life. At home, I write almost 24/7. I must have about six full journals ever since my father's death. I don't write your typical "Dear Diary", I make short stories. Often ones that help my mind escape and roam free for a couple hours. In between that, I find time to lie to my mom about my abundance of friends at Westbank High. God knows I can't stand the snobbish girls in that hell hole, which would probably be the reason I've never made a friend in that place. Don't get me wrong there are some okay people, but no one will ever get me the way I get me. What do they call that? An outcast? Whatever, I've managed so far.

I’m seventeen now, and starting to get to the point of not caring about seemingly useless things like making friends, or going to parties. I just want to finish the school year, and be done with it. There’s still Senior year left though, and today was another boring day of Junior Year.

Sitting in the school parking lot, and reflecting about my oh-so horrible past wasn’t as fun as I thought it would be, so I made my way into the building ever so slowly. My first class of the day was Algebra 2, and boy, math first thing in the morning is just the best. Usually, the teacher would give us some time in the morning to get ourselves situated, but Mr. Batalin decided it would be better to not waste time and just get on with the learning. His passion for the “art of mathematics” was actually disturbing.

The rest of the day went by with a blur, and I could find bad in every single class. The students that made up the population of my school, we’re proven to be literal pieces of shit. Going home, and writing on that fresh piece of paper was always the highlight of my day.

As I was backing up out of the parking lot, at the end of the school day, I felt a force push my small blue Toyota, almost as if I hit something. I immediately pulled my car to a stop and went outside to investigate. There was a slightly visible dent in the bumper of my car and a male standing there holding his arm.

He started to laugh. I’m pretty sure that I just literally backed my car up into him, and he was laughing. 

“Are you, like, okay?” I asked. It seemed like I had thankfully only tapped him with the car.

“You know, you’d look good on a canvas,” he spoke up, completely ignoring my previous question. “Also, there are other ways to hit on me.” He had such an intense stare. I’d seen him around school before, and he was in my photography class... I think. He didn't seem like anyone special or even someone worth remembering.

He was so weird and direct that I couldn't help but stare. I've never encountered something as odd as him. His soft jade eyes were full of mystery, like something right out of one of the many books I go through. His comments were completely out of the blue and he seemed to be very sarcastic. Cocky even, that he could be funny.

He nodded at me, and kept walking. I didn’t even have a chance to apologize.

I was speechless. Who was he? And most importantly why did I care?

**Hey guys this is our first book so comment a lot and be honest so we know what to improve on or what we're nailing! Thanks for reading and following! We hope this book is a success!!

Also, the picture of the girl on the side is who we picture as Emerson Carter. Her name is Niamh Wilson. You might know her from Degrassi!

-Bri and Jazzy xx