Chapter 1

There was no pain this time, just a dull sensation on the side of his head. Years of terrible abuse had broken down his once sensitive nerves and once loving mind. Barret wasn’t focused on the pain, being somewhere else within his own imagination, dreaming of what it would be like to start over. If he could have a mulligan, reset, do-over… Barret wondered about death and if it would be better than the life he had now.

He never knew his mother, or his brother who Barret wishes he could meet just once. He always wondered how things were away from this nightmare- but this was no nightmare. This was his daily life: waking to go to school, coming home and listening to music for hours before his decrepit, drunken father would come home to possibly beat him.

There was no mercy.

There was no joy.

But why would Barret ever stop to think that some unknown and omnipotent force would ever grant him those two things? Why would Barret ever believe that someone or something would save him?

Well he didn’t. He lost his faith years ago when he learned the engulfing and stabbing truth about ‘happy endings’:

There are none.

 

This is what Barret thought as he slept soundly… until his alarm-clock sound.

 

Barret groaned, rolling himself out of bed and from under the covers. He recoiled at the feel of the cold morning air touching his skin. While he would’ve loved to stay under his nice warm blankets… Barret shook the thought of staying in bed away. He got up and stumbled groggily into the center of his room.

The gray morning light shone faintly through his small window, the thin beam barely enough to illuminate the damp, baron room. Barret tiredly leaned up against his hardwood dresser in the corner of the room, opening the drawer and picking his clothes for the day; white t-shirt, black jeans, beaten-up and worn converse; he then slipped out of his room after grabbing his heavy black coat and putting in on.

He set the gas cook-stove on a low heat, slowly cooking the bacon he had set in the pan. While waiting for that, he began to clean the kitchen that his father had made a mess of the night before.

The though of his father made him sick to his stomach; the man was a strong-built, angry looking, robust man who had no sense of empathy.  He was a wrinkly looking thing with sunken in eyes, greatly resembling a vulture, always smirking because it had recently eaten. And the vulture ate every day, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, feeding not only off the money of his departed spouse, but the suffering and misery of his lonely and mistreated hatchling.

Barret knew that his father would die one day and he’d be forgotten, to be picked apart by his own kind: scavengers and cowards…

The sudden crackling of oil and burning grease shocked Barret away out of his apathetic daydream for his father. He rushed into the kitchen, turning the dial to ‘off’; the bacon was charred to the point where when Barret tried to pick them up, they merely crumbled to a dry and black ash.

There was no time to make more; the boy disposed of the ash, proceeding to wash and dry the pan.

Barret headed for his backpack but stopped when he saw his father’s open bedroom door. He creeped into the lightless room, his eyes straining as he looked for the lamp switch on the nightstand near the bed.

It came on with a small click, the single source of light barely illuminating the room. Barret looked over his father with dead eyes, then turning to look at the small lamp. To him, the light symbolized hope. Hope that his father would wake up dead.

He stayed perfectly still, holding his breath, hearing only silence for a small while before grimacing at the returning sound of his fathers steady snore. He flipped the switch on the lamp and quickly left the room, not wanting to look much less be in the same room with the old bastard.

Barret slung his heavy, textbook-filled, backpack over his shoulder, heading for the door. He slowly opened it so it wouldn’t creak, not ever wanting to wake his father from a hangover again… he quickly walked through the doorway, closing the door behind him, then heading out in the empty and wintry street.

Chapter 2

Walking down the frosted street, Barret kept his eyes trained on the ground, away from the outside world. He wanted to think of what could be. He wanted to think the he was away. He wanted to believe that he was far far away, in a whole different place where he was happy. But no matter how hard he thought, no matter how hard he dreamed, he always had the knowledge that’d he would have to stay where he was. The ever infuriating and ever irrefutable fact of the matter made him want to break down into tears… but what would that solve?

He snapped himself back to reality, listening carefully to every sound he could hear… his own footsteps… the strong winds… He focused on what he could feel… coldness… loneliness…

Barret stood in solitude, powerful and wild winds blowing snow in a flurry. He could barely see in front of himself, the storm creating a misty, white haze. But the insufferable cold did not thwart him; being dressed in heavy garbs, looking almost medieval. Leather greaves and iron gauntlets, thick linen clothing with fur skin coat over it.

He was away, somewhere else that no one else could ever reach. He was afraid, fearing human interaction which had so long been prohibited from. And he was in loathing, hatred for the life he had and how adventurous and new the life he was imagining could be.

Barret only had enough time to hear the blaring sound of a car-horn and the screech of tires swerving sharply. He had been roughly thrown to the ground by something; he groaned before he heard a female’s voice. “Are you an idiot?!”

“Wha… what?!” Barret yelled at whoever had shoved him to the ground.

“You nearly just got hit by a car!” The voice yelled; Barret looked up to see a girl of about fifteen, his age, wearing ugg-boots, faded dark blue jeans,  and a skinny-fitting lime-green t-shirt. “Are you slow are something?” The girl asked rhetorically, leaning over him, her rough ended, black hair hanging loosely reaching over her shoulder-blades.

 

“What are you talking about?!” Barret said, shaking his head, regaining his senses. He quickly jumped to his feet in front of the girl.

The just turned her back on him and headed down the sidewalk. “The world is just filled with idiots…” she muttered. Barret shook his head at her, annoyed at that little run in… though she had save his life. He wanted to go after her and say ‘shut-up’ though he knew that wouldn’t solve anything.

“Whatever…” he said under his breath starting to walk again, trying to get over his anger of being insulted.

After a while, he realized that they were going the same way after looking up to be staring at the back of her lime-green shirt. “Are you following me?” the girl asked, back-pacing so she could face him.

Barret glared slightly, “I think we go to the same school, idiot.”

“Shut-up, you repugnant lowlife.” The girl growled lightly at that remark, barely loud enough for him to hear.

“Your not going to make any friends with those comments.” Barret said lowly.

“Says the outcast who never talks.” The girl scoffed picking up pace. “You creepy freaking stalker.”

Barret bowed before her like she was a queen. “Well isn’t it just you lucky day to be able to talk to the man who ‘never speaks’.” he said bitterly and with just as much distaste as the girl before him spoke with.

“Piss off.” she promptly flipped him off as the arrived at the school building. It was more of a prison, or built like one at least. Every wall was grey and stone-like while the and the layout of the building was made exactly like cellblocks.

Barret hated school with a passion mostly because it wasn’t the greatest experience for him, not out of legitimate reasoning. No one talked to him, his teachers returned his cold exterior with one of equal dislike towards him, and he failed constantly because he ‘daydreamed’ so much. Failing would only reward with an angry and brutal beatdown from his father, strung with curses and yells of how disappointing he was as a son.

Having said this, Barret would get his test results today. Whenever he had the chance, at home or at school, Barret always studied extremely hard on tests despite how short of an attention span he had, especially without reminder to get back on task.

He walked up the stone steps and through the double doors the girl ahead of him had just gone through. Barret looked to one side and then the next, bustling hallways on either sides. Friends laughing a chatting amongst themselves paying no heed to Barret whom was as good as nonexistent to many of them.

He leaned against the wall directly next to the door, hoping he could just get a couple minutes to close his eyes and…

*RIIIIIIIIIING*

Barret swore under his breath as the school bell sounded, all the students filing into their respective classrooms, him doing the same.

He walked into his first period, math, where he’d get his test back. He sat down at his usual seat noting the the person sitting next to him happened to be the girl from earlier. He sighed in minor annoyance while the teacher handed back the tests; D-.

“Nice job, idiot.” The girl said with a sly grin leaning over Barret’s shoulder; she held her paper in a way where it gave him a clear view of her perfect score. 30 out of 30. He grit his teeth in frustration that someone so spiteful was so much better than him. Couldn’t she just be happy in knowing got the A+, and leave the boasting behind?

But of course, there couldn’t just be a single compatible person in the whole school whom Barret could call a friend. A ‘friend’ was just a word for Barret, like knowing about something but never experiencing it.

It’s an odd and disappointing thing for someone to fathom about, cliche almost for those whom are known as ‘loners’.

He wished that someone would approach him in friendship, take notice to him, and end his spell of loneliness. Barret wished he could call it solitude but that would mean he chose to be alone.

As he thought about his life, everything the teacher droned on about went right past him. People snickered at him from around the class as it was apparent that he was no longer paying attention…. The bell sounded again an hour later, the students rising from the seats, waltzing to their next class, including Barret.

 

He went from class to class, collecting his horrid grades until the final bell wrung, the school going into frenzy as they flooded out the exit into a rare event that happened in the sleep town they called home: snow.

The gentle snowflakes drifted along the soft winds, falling across the ground and buildings.

Barret held out his hand as a single flake fell into it, quickly dissipating into his palm. He stuff his tests into his backpack and then slung the bag over his shoulder, heading back to his house through the empty and wintry streets. Though as he walked, he kept think about that girl; just the thought of her made him so confused and angry.

He took a deep breathing, inhaling the cold, cold air. He huffed into his hands, though only barely. Barret sighed, shivering lightly as he gaze drifted towards the ground.

This is what I wanted… I guess. I enjoy basking in my own misery and I refuse to end my own self-apathy. No more will I skulk within the darkness.

The anger and infuriation for the lost years he had spent waiting for something- anything- to happen burned the ice off his now frost-covered clothes.

“No more…”

Barret’s conviction was strong. Too strong.

 

When he got home, his dad was there, an empty bottle of vodka at his feet, staring at the TV.  The only light in the room being the soft glow from the screen.

Barret gently shut the door once he got in, trying not to startle his father to no avail; “Where’s your test?” the old man snarled at the boy, not looking away from the TV.

“I… I didn’t get them yet…-” Barret said, the nervousness towards the subject apparent. But his trail off was cut short by the vodka bottle being flung at high speeds towards him; he dropped to the ground as the bottle exploded into tiny shards of glass as it hit the wall next to Barret.

“Bull!” The father yelled, standing up and walking right over to Barret, delivering a swift, deft kick to they boy’s ribs making gasp for the air the kick robbed from him. “You think I’m an idiot, Barret!”

“No, I don’t…” he sputtered out as he took tore open his backpack and drew the tests from it. The old man peered closely due to the dim lights. “‘D’ MINUS?” anger practically seething from his very being.

“I-” Barret was cut off again by another kick to the ribs, and then another to the gut. His eyes widened when he heard a definitive crack. The old man slammed his head into the wall.

“I’ll teach you…” the drunkard growled lowly, Barret trying to push himself off the ground only to be met with a piston for a fist to the lip. The hardwood floor gained a new color: crimson.

The art the abusive father was making upon the dusty floor was an explosion of that single color. It seemed eons before masterpiece of endless red was cut short by the fading footsteps of the father distancing himself.

Barret eyes drifted across the room to merely stare a the glass shards glimmering from the faint glow of the TV. But at the click of the button, the fraction of light through the shard was gone. The room was dark and Barret was alone.

Chapter 3

Barret woke to the shards of glass once again glimmering in the dull, early morning light. He pushed himself off the ground and leaned against the wall beside him for support, his side pulsating in pain, his his tongue stained by the taste of his own blood.

“Nhg…” he stumbled forward once, subject to the feeling that a million bombs exploded in his head. His world was rocking back and forth, up and down and he shambled into the kitchen. He rinsed his face and his mouth, washing the blood away, spitting the pinkish liquid of water and blood into the sink.

“No more…” he muttered; he swung open the knife drawer grabbing a butchers knife. He traipsed down the hall but then softened his footsteps win he neared his father’s room. Barret held this knife high over his own, aiming down towards his fathers throat, with every terrible intent to kill.

He swung down at full force though some unknown force stopped the blade an inch away from the sleeping man’s throat: mercy. Barret struggled against his own conscience to plunge the blade in the man’s throat, but he just couldn’t.

He threw the blade to the side, ashamed at his own cowardliness, the edge sticking into the hardwood floor. Barret stumbled backwards once, also ashamed that he would kill a man out of cold blood.

It wouldn’t solve anything and he’d be a murderer.

He turned and ran out the bedroom door and headed for his own room; he discarded his text books and began to fill it with his possessions… the only things in the backpack was a change of clothes and his wallet…

Barret sighed and gently set his backpack down and drew his wallet from his backpack and stuffed it into his pocket. He closed his eyes, keeping them closed for a minute or so, sad. Not sad by the fact the he was leaving, but by the fact that he had no reason to be sad that he was leaving.

No sorrow, no regret- this was just a decision he would make that would probably improve his left. So with his usual unidentifiable sigh, that never told if he was disappointed or just plain miserable, his eyes once again trained on the ground, he headed for the door.

He slowly opened the old wooden door, a gust of cold air filled with snow swished through the crack. Barret stepped out from the house which he had spent all of his terrible life and then, closed the door, hoping to never see anything within that house again.

His steady footsteps began, heading in some random direction, not knowing or caring where he’d end up. He just wanted to away from that man before he discarded all good will and morality he had and ran back to the house to kill his father.

His footsteps became unsteady as he broke into a fast-paced walk, and then a run. Barret ran as fast as he could, wanting to distance himself as far away as possible from that place which had tormented him all his life.

He wanted to cry for some reason, the overwhelming sense of emotion flooding his chest. He couldn’t under stand all this anger, hate, and sorrow… and maybe something else.

He could’ve killed himself long ago, and at this dark realization, another more powerful thought came to mind. If life was so terrible, why continue? Why not just end it? Because he believed, somewhere within his confused and hurt mind, that there was hope. Hope that he would have a better life and that nightmare’s would haunt him no longer.

As he ran, he heavy breath flashed against the thick air, making it a white blur in from of his mouth for a second before it faded to be replaced by another breath. While his lungs burned from inhaling the cold, brisk air, his ambition to change his life continued to fuel him as he ran.

And he kept running as a light snowfall began.

Chapter 4

Despite his heavy clothes and the extreme cold that embraced Barret, making his lungs burn in contrast to the outer feeling, he continued to run for several miles until his vision began to blur slightly.

Once this began, his slowed his pace to a walk- more of a stumble- where he had to use the building parallel to the edge of the sidewalk as support. He was panting hard from his prolonged sprint and now needed to rest.

Barret readjusted his coat and continued to shamble forward along the street, quite weary,  never having been this far before. He sat down at a bench, close to a bus stop, cars driving up an down the boulevard.

He dropped himself onto the bench, sighing in relief that his legs were excused from the burden of carrying the rest of his body, so long his sat down.

“You look tired,” a husky yet kind sounding voice said to his right. Barret turned his head to see the source; a ragged looking man, probably a bum or homeless, dressed in jeans, beaten up tennis shoes, and a leather coat ripped in several places.

“Yeah…” Barret said, his expression soft, a not nervous at all before the stranger.

“Been running?” The bum asked, his expression as equally as relaxed. His face matched his attire, tired and lined with wrinkles. He had dark brown scruff along his chin, unkempt, along his his short and wild blackish brown hair.

“Mm.” Barret grunted in agreement with a single nod. “From’ north residential area.” he said, earning a raised brow and smile from the corner of the bum’s mouth.

“That’s pretty far, you must gotta good reason coming all that way. What’re you? 15? 16?” He asked, his accent probably from New York, Brooklyn maybe.

“15.” Barret replied, catching himself the moment after he said that, not knowing if the man would tell the cops. If that happened, he’d be back at home, taking another beating.

“Damn…” He shook his head back an forth lightly, eyes closed though still with his little smirk. “15 and runnin’ away.” At this comment, though, Barret was astonished but not surprised that the bum could deduce that.

“How-” Barret was going to ask how but the bum could guess that from that one word and cut him off.

“You got some cuts on your face and you ran a long way, probably to get away from whatever gave you them.” He said, looking right at Barret with his gentle brown eyes and a soft smile. To this, Barret let out a sigh of defeat this alone confirming everything the man had suspected.

“To my own concession, you win.” Barret said, head down. The bum let out a short laugh then stifled by a hoarse cough.

“Boy, I respect you.” He had a smug grin on his face. “You’re way more real that half the idiots out there who try to get a job and die, who put up with their problems. But you,” he paused for a brief moment, “you’re willin’ to take a chance a start a new life.”

“T-thanks.” Barret said, with a small but genuine smile, not just trying to be nice and smile at a complement.

“The stiffs I see in suits every day on their way to work are just another brick in wall.” The bum said, pulling something out his pocket. “Take this.” he tossed a blue card, with in yellow letters, ‘BUS PASS’ printed on it.

“A bus pass?” Barret raised a brow, examining it.

“You don’t wanna walk your entire journey, do ya?” The bum patted his back roughly, his hardy, straightforward and good nature personality quite blatantly apparent.

“No, sir.” Barret said confidently, a strong smile on his scraped up face front the night before, the sound of a metropolitan bus chugging up the stop they were sitting at.

“Well, time for you go, kid.” They both stood and shook hand.

“Thanks again.” Barret said as the pneumatic doors opened. “See ya.”