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1
GABE
The halls reek of disinfectant and desperation as students scatter like locusts come to deliver the plague. There's no apocalypse coming and no wrath of God to be served upon us, though. The Book of Revelations came long before any of us ever stepped foot in these hallowed halls.
We are already in hell—medicated, institutionalizedhell.
We're here to pay for our so-called sins and to protect the neurotypicals from us, the outcasts.
I don't mind hell.
I would prefer, though, that it come without the stench of industrial cleaning solution and cramped sweaty bodies. The furnaces in the basement must be acting up today because it feels like it's a hundred degrees in here. It's not a dry summertime heat either. It's wet and nasty. It sticks to the stone walls and clings to your skin, making you feel unclean. I need a shower, and it's barely seven in the morning.
It reeks of sex without the fun, and I don't like it. If I'm going to get sweaty, I want it to be from fucking or fire making, and none of those things have brought joy to my dark world this morning. I could deal with the stench and the annoying as fuck students preening in front of each other, like we all aren't animals in a zoo run by the administration. We are caged, put away here at Chryseum Reformatory Academy until we can show our parents and the world that we are rehabilitated. That is unless you're one of the unlucky bastards who doesn't make it that far.
I plan on making it that far, though, if only to spite my bastard of a father. God only knows what he's doing right now, probably more business dealings that make more enemies than friends. Or maybe he's with my mother, sipping mimosas at the country club while they pretend I don't exist. Better yet, I bet he's with his girlfriend pretending both me and my mother don't exist.
Whatever. I don't give a fuck, not that I am in here and not that he is no doubt enjoying my captivity.
Today's gonna be a good fucking day, and not because our babysitters abruptly gave up and abandoned us students at the place we call the Asylum, leaving us to fend for ourselves. And definitely not because God willed it either, if you believe in that sort of thing.
No, it's going to be a good day because I'll make sure of it, right here, right now, today. I'm the closest thing most of the heathens around here will ever get to meeting a deity anyway.
Bow down and pray, fellow students, because your Lord and Savior Gabriel Soros has arrived and he proclaims that today's going to be fucking awesome.
Well, for me at least. I don't actually know about them.
Now I just have to find my target first.
I walk down the hall past a pair of new guards playing grab ass, and I mean that in every literal sense. They are smacking the asses of girls as they pass, catching a handful of plaid skirts and white tights in the process before they guffaw every time like a couple of morons. It's going to be fun when they choose the wrong one and take an uppercut to the jaw or get shanked in a kidney and piss blood for a week. All the old timers around here know better than to attempt this shit, especially out in the open and outnumbered, but you've got to actually have a brain cell to last around here. By the looks of it, these two don't have a single one between both of them.
I don't have the patience to sit around and wait for them to choose the wrong victim.
I need to find my target.
Now.
I continue down the hall, heading toward my first class. Enid Circe blows me a kiss as she stands guard outside the nurse's office, waiting for the lady to open the door. She's probably going to complain about her period or a phantom headache or something else to get her out of class this morning, but no way is she getting written off for the full day. Not unless she loses an appendage, and everyone can see she doesn't have the stomach for that.
See, Enid is stupid about it. She does this shit every single week, basically trying to stay locked up in her dorm room until graduation. I think even the softhearted nurse is tired of it.Iam tired of it, and it doesn't affect me.
Enid's got cock-sucking lips and a rack made for motorboating, but those are about her only two redeeming qualities. She's got a gossip's mouth, a nasty temper, and ablutophobia, which means her hair is always greasy, her skin's two shades darker beneath all of the dirt, and she smells like she rolled around in a dumpster. Maybe if she showered every now and again, I'd let her near me, but as she currently stands, I have no desire to let her within ten feet of my dick.
Well . . . at least not from the front anyway.
Sex used to quiet the noise, but now it's even become a chore. I've moved on, searching for the next thing, whatever that may be to ignite the fire in my veins and make my blood sizzle.
Sometimes, fucking will still do it, when they come all over my cock and make me feel all warm and fuzzy about myself. Lately, though, I only crave the burn. I want to feel the heat on my fingertips until they turn black from the ash as the flames lick my skin and burn away all of my transgressions.
When I was six years old, I drew my family going up in flames, and my father called me a freak.
When I was seven, my best friend at the time said he was scared of me after I set a spider on fire in his driveway.
When I was eight, my mother armchair diagnosed me as a sociopath after I set our house on fire.
That's not my official diagnosis, though. I'm a pyromaniac, my "condition" comorbid with antisocial personality disorder. My old therapist, the one I had before I was brought here, said I was a sadist, but she didn't understand. They never do, and I don't care to tell them. The docs only see what they want to see anyway.
I don't want to hurt anyone.
