A New Tradition

October 31st, 2006.

Drake Merwin lounges on the pristine leather sofa his mother warned him not to touch. A bowl of popcorn - salted, buttered - rests on his lap and is occasionally disrupted when he laughs just a little too hard at the scenes of the horror flick he's watching.

It's no bother if he spills it, though. His dad doesn't mind. In fact, with the way Nikolai Merwin's shoulders shake with repressed laughter, nearly upsetting the bowl resting on his legs - salted, but unbuttered popcorn - he's close to spilling the treat himself.

This is their night. The one night that Drake's father is guaranteed to be home - Halloween is sacred to the pair, a ritual has been established.

First - hunting. The younger Merwin would normally protest at being awake so early, but Nikolai insists that the clear sky and beckoning dawn attracts the best prey, even if he's bleary-eyed himself. A .35 Remington and Drake's own Browning disturbs the peace of the 200 acres they're entitled to. The adrenaline is still pumping through their veins by the time he next activity begins - the ritualistic target practice. Natalia Merwin shakes her head but doesn't protest as she hears the shots ring out - his mother was always a silent type.

7:35pm. Movie night. Evil Dead this year, although they've both seen it enough to quote it together. Drake smirks as Scott buries a dagger in his possessed girlfriend. He doesn't need to look to know his father's expression is a facsimile of his own.

"Natalia, grab us some beers, won't you?" Nikolai calls out. He's satisfied at the echo of footsteps from the next room, and turns to his son.

"What's next, my boy?" he asks Drake. His father's blue-grey eyes are as sharp as ever.

"Saw...three. That's the new one," Drake replies, starting to get up to turn it on. Nikolai stops him with a hand on his arm.

"Drake...I don't say this lightly. I love you, son, and you're becoming a man. And..," he closes his eyes for a few seconds, steeling himself. "Your mother isn't like you or me. But she loves you in her own way."

Thirteen-year-old Drake stares. And he nods like he understands.

"Let's get that movie on, shall we?" his dad says.

And all is right again.

October 31st, 2007.

It's a cold night, a dark night. That had never bothered Drake before when he was lounging around the three-story house his family owned.
It bothers him now, standing at his father's grave. Buried in a family plot, of course. The Merwins had class, and above all, valued family.
But family doesn't mean anything to Drake now. Neither does Halloween.
He still woke up before dawn and grabbed his Browning. But alone. Alone, and cold.
He still irritated his mother with the resounding bang, bang, click. But there was only one set of shots, now.
He still made popcorn and watched a movie. The salted, unbuttered popcorn was like cardboard in his mouth.

He doesn't hear a slightly deeper laugh at the gore anymore. He doesn't know that there'll be a similar smirk at the violence. (Oh, that smirk, that was family. That was hereditary, and now there's only one it belongs to-)
Only two things in the world had ever brought Drake happiness.
One of them is buried. The second will have to make up for it.
Drake raises the .35 and fires a salute into the air. As he drops it, his hand is already reaching for the air rifle.
Holden smirks. He thinks he's got Drake. He thinks he's safe.
Drake fires.
And smirks.
And starts a new tradition.