15A/N: Okay, so here it is. Chapter One. Wooo! Lawlz Anyway, it's a little long. I just didn't know where to cut it off... Hope you like it! :)
Note: There's some swearing and other things like alchohol and stuff. I'm just paranoid. xD Enjoy!
1
Connor and Adam ran for their lives. Behind them, the school principal, Miss Carson, yelled after them.
"You rotten kids!" she screeched, "I'm going to make you pay for this" The teacher glared at their receding figures then walked back into Nickleson High. She was an old woman—approximately fifty-five—and she really needed to retire.
The two boys laughed, still running. Connor had golden-colored hair and dark chocolate eyes. His black, unzipped jacket flapped behind him, and cool air rushed through his ripped jeans. Bruises covered his arms and face from recent fights and some other things he didn't like to talk about.
Adam had curly black hair and mischievous gray eyes. He was sweating, and the liquid turned cold from the wind pressing it to his chest and face. Dressed only in gray sweatpants and a black short-sleeve shirt, he was pretty cold, but he would never admit that.
Connor and Adam were what people called "troubled kids." They drank and smoked and got into all kinds of fights. The two boys were also pranksters. Connor and Adam would egg football stars' cars, vandalize people's houses, and starting tonight, graffiti the school.
Why they did all these things was obvious only to them alone. Connor did it because going around town getting in trouble was way better than sitting at home alone with his drunken dad. His dad isn't the best parent in the world. Adam did these things because he didn't have anything better to do. His parents didn't care about him; all they cared about was his twenty-two year old, supposedly "perfect" sister. She was accepted by a college Adam never even heard of, was married to one of the richest men he ever met (okay, the richest), and what was he? A low-life with horrible grades, who keeps skipping class for smoke breaks, and who does everything people his age wouldn't even think of. Like, for example, steal a car or ditch school because of a wretched hangover.
The two boys slowed down, still laughing, in a park. In their hands they held cans of spray paint.
"Best one…yet," Connor gasped, almost keeling over from lack of oxygen.
"Agreed," Adam panted. He looked at the can of spray paint in his hand, shrugged off the brown bag he brought, and dropped it in, while Connor did the same. Adam rummaged through the bag and found what he was looking for. He pulled out a six-pack of beer, grabbed two cans, and put the rest back in the bag. Grinning, he handed one to his friend.
They popped open the cans and took a huge gulp. Sliding down his throat, the alcohol stung, but Connor relished the pain. It was better than the other kind of pain, the pain of getting beat. After taking another swig, he rubbed away the foam around his mouth.
Adam cleared his throat and said in a casual tone, "Well, this is fun, isn't it?" Silence for five seconds, then the two boys cracked up.
As Connor laughed, his phone started to sing "Monster" by Skillet. He looked down at the Caller I.D, and his laughter, along with his smile, faded. He answered it, glaring at nothing in particular.
"Where the hell are you?" a gruff voice demanded. It belonged to his father.
"Out. What did you do, lose a bet?" Connor asked dryly. Adam stopped laughing and looked at him with understanding eyes; he knew about his friend's father.
"Shut up. Get back here in ten minutes, jackass." He hung up. Connor snarled at his phone and jammed it back in his pocket. He took another swig of beer.
Adam kept looking at him and said, "Your dad." It wasn't a question; it was a statement.
Connor nodded, swallowed, and replied, "Yeah. I'd ask you if I could stay at your house, but that son of the bitch actually sounded like he needed something."
His friend shrugged. "Okay. It's your call; I wouldn't care either way."
"I better go home and see what he wants." Connor sighed.
Adam gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Want me to drive you back?" he asked. He had a rusty car he got from his sister when their parents bought her a nicer and more expensive one.
Connor gave him a weak smile. "No, I'm fine. Thanks."
Adam nodded and took out a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. He grabbed one for himself, another for his friend. Connor accepted it and lit it with his friend's lighter. They both took a long drag, and then Connor finished his beer, dropped the can to the ground, and smashed it with his foot. He nodded to Adam, said goodbye, and started the ten-minute walk back to his house.
The part of town Connor was walking down was unnaturally quiet. Normally, at this time of night, there were drug dealers, drunks on the streets asking for money, or the music from bars or clubs. Now, though, Connor didn't hear a thing. That made him uneasy; it felt like someone or something was watching him. Connor grunted, ashamed for being afraid of something childish like that, and wrapped his grimy jacket tightly around himself, while enjoying the rest of his cigarette. He shivered. It was getting cold that time of year. Eventually, he arrived at a junky two-story house. A rusty truck, his father's, sat in the driveway.
Connor sighed and started up the walkway to the porch. Next to the porch stairs was a small, circular gravestone surrounded by blue and purple lilies, his mother's favorite flower. Carved into the stone was a name: Claudia Terry. Connor's dead mother. He still remembers how she died even though it was eight years ago, when he was six. If only his dad didn't buy her that damned puppy.
For her twenty-sixth birthday, John Terry bought Claudia a Chocolate Lab puppy from a guy he knew at work. At first, he thought she would hate the pup: it was scrawny and thin. But Claudia loved it. She named it Rango and immediately started to train and play with him. There was something wrong, though. John bought the pup from a guy he worked with. The man forgot to tell John about Rango's rabies. John and Claudia didn't have any extra money they could spend to get the pup his shots, but Claudia didn't care. As far as she knew, Rango never bit. That was the happiest Connor ever saw his father. Then it started to go down hill.
One day, Claudia was playing tug of war with Rango. Connor was watching them, laughing and giggling. Rango, trying to get a good grip on the rope, kept biting up to where Claudia's hands were. He got too close and bit deeply into her left hand. Claudia let go of the rope and went to wrap up her damaged hand. A few days later, Connor's mother got extremely sick. John wanted to get her to the hospital, but she argued not to. She knew she was dying, so did John, though he didn't want to believe it. All Connor knew was that his mother was very ill, and he sat beside her bed with Rango, all the time. One week later Claudia died. The doctor who examined the body said that she was killed by rabies, probably from a dog. Right after the funeral, John calmly grabbed Rango and his shotgun. He went into the backyard and shot the dog five times in the head and throat.
Connor cried when Rango was dead, not only for the dog, but also for his late mother. John caught him weeping and hit him in the stomach with the butt of the gun, over and over. After that, Connor never cried again.
John then started to drink and smoke; he got drunk almost every night. When Connor was twelve, John gave him his first cigarette and taught him how to fight. After he turned thirteen, John gave him a can of beer. His father got really moody after that and started to beat Connor. Connor then started to avoid his home as much as possible.
Back in the present, Connor stopped by the grave. "Hey, Mom," he murmured, "I hope you're feeling alright up there." He climbed up the stairs and into the house.
The house was simple enough. There was a small living room right when you walk in. Next to it was an even smaller kitchen. In the living room there were stairs that led up to a bathroom and two bedrooms. Beside Connor, a mounted television blared the news. In front of it was a coffee table littered with empty beer cans and cigarette butts.
Next to the table was a three-seat couch. A man in his early thirties was asleep, his upper body on the floor. The man was Connor's father. His golden hair was splayed messily across his scar-filled face. One long, pink scar ran down one side of his face to the other. He smelled of beer and cigarette smoke. On the ground next to him was his cell phone.
Connor exhaled deeply and picked up some of the trash off the floor. When he was done, he turned off the t.v and went over to his father. The boy let him lean against him, and he wobbled toward the staircase, wincing. John, his father, beat him last week and wacked his shoulder with a frying pan. He still didn't heal fully, yet.
'Wow, if this is what you needed me for, you're pretty useless," Connor thought as he limped up the stairs at a snail's pace. When he got up the stairs, he hobbled down the hall and kicked open a door to a room. The boy pushed his drunken father onto his bed. Closing the door to John's room behind him, he walked downstairs and into the kitchen.
Connor reached for the cabinet above the fridge and grabbed two packs of his father's cigarettes, not caring if he got yelled at or beat. He opened the refridgerator and stole a six-pack of beer, the last one.
The boy leaped back upstairs and went the opposite of his father's bedroom. At the end of the hallway, there were two closed doors. One was to Connor's room, the other to the bathroom. Connor walked into his bedroom and locked the door behind him.
A/N Well, that was an eeeeeeepically long chapter, and probably uber boring, too. For that, I apologize and to make it up, next chapter will have werewolf-y goodness. Oh, and can you guys review? I just want to know if I should go along with this, or if I'm just wasting my time. Tootles! Oh, and whoever reviews gets a virtual cookie! haha :)
~Sina-san~