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Kill would probably be the leader of his own cult if he hadn't ended up here, but he's as fucked up as the rest of us. I don't know the whole story. He shares bits and pieces with Saint and me when he drinks too much homemade booze or is feeling especially sentimental, but I know enough.
He watched his daddy cut up his mommy into tiny little bits while his daddy talked to the heavens, waving his arms, and saying God demanded a sacrifice. Childhood Kill would have probably been next if not for his father fucking up, slipping in the blood, and eating his own machete. I thought Saint had been through the wringer after I learned he was kidnapped as a child by some bastard trying to force his father into a business deal, but Kill's father killing his mother is about the nicest part of his childhood. And that's saying something.
It all stems from our parents, I guess, at least for the three of us. That's always the question, isn't it? Nature versus nurture and all that bullshit, but I know I wasn't born this way, at least I don't think so. Sure, my brain was fucked up. It's not like I spontaneously developed a learning disorder because my dad's a prick. But my father definitely contributed into who I am, and Saint's father definitely fucked him up, and Kill's, well, he takes the first prize at the Academy fair for screwing up his son's childhood.
Kill, Saint, and I are a psychiatrist's nightmare too because we aren't about to share any of that shit with anyone, not unless we trust them. And I don't trust anybody in this world other than Saint and Kill. Last I heard, Saint still pretends in his mandatory group therapy sessions that his parents are divorced, and that's the root of his problems. Kill won't say a single word to the Butcher, not evenfuck youandgoodbye. And me, I just like to screw with the docs. Maybe if they wanted to cure us, it would be different, but what's the point in sharing when they have already written us off? We know what we are, cash cows and pots of money for this place to suck dry like we're feeding a dollar-guzzling succubus.
I have to disagree with Kill, though.
He may say that I have a thing for lost causes, but I don't think my bright Firefly is lost. There's hope in her yet. She is different, though, which is nice. She's not so agreeable. She doesn't praise me or try to get my attention by preening like a peacock strutting her feathers for me.
Maybe if I fix her, I can help myself because at the end of the day, there's no one I hate more than me.
The fires feel like a drop of dopamine every time I start the flame. They burn away all the negative shit and all the noise that makes me feel less than and unworthy.
Roll and click, on.
Roll and click, on.
Roll and click.
My father's words replay in my head, repeating like a radio station I can't turn off.
Have you learned to read yet?
Have you learned to read . . . yet.
The fucking prick.
I turn down the hallway, heading to the dining hall. One of the pyromaniac posers, a pretty girl with an ass like a Kardashian, spontaneously appears at my side, or at least it feels that way. She's like a damn ghost, materializing out of thin air just to haunt me.
"Gabe," Shelby purrs at me, smiling widely and putting her claw on my shoulder, "where have you been? I've missed you, baby."
She should know better than to call me that. It reeks of desperation. The only babies between the two of us are the ones I shot down her throat eight weeks ago.
She digs her talons in a little deeper, and I shrug her off of me. Maybe I could have forgiven her for faking her love of the flame, but right now I need her to go so I can find Avery.
"Bye, Shelby," I tell her, jogging ahead of her. That's about as polite as she's going to get from me right now.
I narrowly avoid a pair of guards who eat up nearly the entire space when my Firefly almost collides with me. She's crying, and to my surprise, I find that I don't like it. Now I don't exactlynotlike it either, but I don't understand why.
I haven't given her anything to cry about, not lately at least, so what is she doing?
"Avery," I call, following her. "Wait up!"
To the surprise of no one, she keeps going, sprinting away from me, and doesn't turn back.
10
GABE
Ifollow after my Firefly, but she doesn't slow down. She's practically bolting through the halls, one foot barely hitting the floor before she's pushing forward and onto the next step. Students and guards mill about, headed to the dining hall or class. No one cares what the blue-eyed girl with hair the color of gold and fire is doing.
I will admit that someone sobbing in the hallway is practically a daily occurrence around here. Hell, it would be weird if someone wasn't crying in a corner somewhere. Still, I need to know why. I'm pretty sure it's not because of me. I think I would remember ruining her day. We haven't been to class yet.
One of her eating disorder friends sees her, stops walking, and turns like he wants to ask her what's wrong. Now I do care about this guy trying to come in like he's Prince Charming to save her from the bad dragon. I have a news flash for him, though. Princes aren't welcome around here, only dragons. She's my treasure, and I will light him up brighter than the George Washington Bridge on New Year's Eve if he gets in my fucking way.
The moron doesn't even belong at the Academy. He came here after what had to be one of the worst suicide attempts in the history of freaking planet Earth. And I don't mean that it was an especially bloody or violent attempt. No, the freak swallowed three bottles of gummy vitamins, and I guess his overprotective mommy freaked. After three failed rehabilitation attempts, she sent him here to put him on the path to salvation.
