The opening scene to The Street Kid, the book of which is coming your way in a few days.
Stay tuned …
UPDATE: If you like what you read, you can find the book here:
(I want to die, is all I can think of. Death is the only sweet release. It is the only thing that feels right, the cold knife in the heart, it feels so right. It is the best direction. I’m trying not to believe this, but the world … it tells so much truth. What else am I supposed to do with that bitter truth? Be bitter myself, or keep whatever hope and sanity I still have within myself?
Except I don’t want to be bitter. I don’t want to have that kind of bitterness) Phoenix stood up out of bed, his head shaking, spinning elaborate webs of deceit and intrigue that he did not have time for right now. The Murderers. They were coming, right? Weren’t they on their way? (I can’t have bitterness. It destroys everything about me. But the Murderers… they are right. They have the answers. They know exactly what I should follow, and I need to follow that) Weren’t the Murderers closer than ever, now that Phoenix had begun to rise? Now that he had begun to question his death? His birth?
Phoenix stumbled back on the lip of his bed, shaking, his hands, his feet, his heart, they would not stop quivering, and he wasn’t afraid, no, of course he wasn’t afraid. He was only anticipating that things were changing. He was anticipating that he was rising. (They murdered me last night. They took what I wanted to do to myself and made it a reality. I hate myself for being such a coward, but they were right; except I don’t believe this, because I need to escape them. I can’t be like the Murderers. I can’t) At least, he wanted to believe that he was rising.
His family betrayed him, because this was what they wanted out of him. They wanted him to leave. The long, painful goodbye, except without the goodbye. No closure? Of course not, not in this world.
Everything, so different. The world, gray, the world literally a walking corpse hungrily running after sunshine that would never come. (I see all of them, they are dead, they are so full of emptiness, don’t they understand this about themselves, don’t they understand that they are corpses, zombies, with no life? Don’t they understand?)
Phoenix was crying. He couldn’t stop himself, the tears flowing so smoothly, like blood out of a new wound.
He stood up, and held his chest and shoulders, seeking warmth that he wasn’t going to find. He shakily opened the drawer and pulled out a T-shirt. (Today, I will go as myself.) A red T-shirt. A painful, happy nod to the reflection, staring back with the same apathy as everything in the world, as everyone in existence. A red T-shirt, with the word Arizona and Phoenix stitched across in dead letters. (But maybe there can be fire) He needed to go to Phoenix. Except, how was he supposed to get there? He could walk, but he couldn’t leave his family behind. He loved them. He needed them with him.
(Your parents are dead.)
Phoenix was not sure what to do with this information. It was as though he had heard this information for the first time. No, his family loved him, they did not want him to suffer. They did not want him to die.
Still looking at the reflection. The face, so pale, brown ashen hair, the lips, chapped and cracked, so like his soul, and eyes, so red, the irises blazing a stained, pained, dead red. Like neon blood. Amazing that he wasn’t bleeding right now, because (I have died) … death before birth.
(I died last night. The Murderers)
But there was no blood, there was no wound, only the invisible wound on his heart, the one that people always cared less to see. And it was understandable. That they ignored him.
But there was more to the equation. He always was happy, wasn’t he? Wasn’t he always happy?
(Today, I will go as myself)