Running in the Wrong Direction Preview

A Story by KidAnthony

Preview of my upcoming book, Running in the Wrong Direction. Enjoy!

The door swung open.

I am the monster I hated most

The blood began to flow.

I am the monster betrayed most

The stains would never wash away.

I am the monster I feared most.

“I tried to stop. I-I really did, but he just wouldn't shut up. Now I'm caught in the middle of... Oh my God... Breathe Noah, breathe. I-I-I need to get out of here... there's so much blood. He just... I just...I killed him.” Broken glass crunched under foot as he stepped towards me, slowly raising his hands. “I-It's okay Marlin. I'm here to bring you home,” Joseph said. I screamed wildly and slashed my already bloodied knife at him. He stopped and smiled feebly. “I'm not going to hurt you. I can tell you're scared, but you have to come with me. We can get you help...” I tightened my grip on the blade. Droplets of blood coursed from my arm and fell from its edge. I stared angrily at Joseph and demanded, “Who is Noah?”

It was a question that haunted many of my nights. It invaded my dreams, destroying my peace and solitude with the form of a shadowed figure holding a gun to my head. Most of it's features were cloaked, but I could always make out it's decaying smile and those piercing blue eyes, full of accusation. As I would close my eyes and give into my demise, The figure would simply say, “Noah,” before ending my life with excruciating pain. I asked Joseph again. “Who is Noah?” He stopped walking. Letting off a small chuckle, Joseph shook his head and said, “Mar, you still don't get it do you? Noah isn't-” I howled and ran my switchblade through Joseph stomach.

I stabbed him over and over until I couldn't tell where my blood ended and his blood began. I stood over him and listened with frustration as he sputtered his last words. “We did everything we could... to save you. We clothed you, fed you... loved you, but now, you truly are... lost...,” I slit his throat, and blood dribbled from Joseph's pained, lifeless face. I cried. I remember screaming for someone, anyone, to save me. But all I received was nothing more than the echo of my own voice.

I stared at Joseph's dead body, knowing I had to get out of there before anyone discovered him or the other body. With bare feet, I stepped through the pool of Joseph's blood, now cold and sticky. Once i made my way to the bathroom, I cleaned the gashes in my left arm as demons danced in the mirror. "He had to die," one whispered. "You couldn't go back to who you were," another reasoned. They were right. Even as I write this, I know I can never go back home. I'm lost.

I've sealed my fate with my sins, but before the robbery, the murders...Noah, I wanted to become a Writer. I wanted nothing more than to travel the clouded plains of Ireland, the ocean of sands in the Sahara, and feel the robust imagery of Japan. I suppose I expected to find my big break within one of my books; maybe having one of my anti-heroes living on in infamy, or having a one of my quotes become an idiom. Sorry to say, I didn't. In fact, I never finished a book. Too afraid, I suppose. I'd get all worked up and excited to begin writing. I'd get to the 5^th full page and lose heart. What if it didn't sell? What if no cared? I was a quitter.

Not that any of that matters anymore. I'm a criminal now. Wanted for murder, obstruction of justice, assault... you name it. I suppose I decided to write this letter to you to... explain myself. I suppose I'll begin with Joseph.

Joseph... was my stepfather. Without him, I don't believe I would be the same man today. He was one of the most influential members of my community. Head of Neighborhood Watch. Member of the PTA. Recipient of the Silver Star for his valor in combat. As the story goes, Joseph's convoy was stranded in the middle of one of the Afghanistan Deserts, and they we're carrying some precious “cargo.” The lead vehicle was immobilized by Daisy Chain. That was all it took. “It seemed as if they popped out of the f*****g sand itself,” Joseph would recount, his eyes usually becoming glossy. “Before I knew it, Henderson, who was sitting to the left of me, had half of his skull in my lap. I remember the way he looked at me just before he died...” Joseph would trail off. “He was a man who wasn't ready to die. His remaining eye and mouth cycled through anger, sorrow, and fear, almost instantaneously. I wanted to put him at ease... I couldn't. He was going to die, and there wasn't a damn thing anyone in that car could have done about it.” That part of the story was one that haunted me. I remember the anger and sadness in Joseph's eyes; I remember his bottom lip quivering as he held back tears. I remember him putting himself through all of the pain again, just to satisfy a little boy's curiosity.

Joseph wasn't without his demons. In the moments PTSD would ensnare him, anything and anyone was subject to his rage. Usually, it would be a subtle trigger; the food in the microwave may have popped too loud, his high grade flashlight would strobe for a bit too long, lightning struck to close to the house... things like that. At first, he would just seem a bit shaken up. Soon, his symptoms would in-sue.

“Is everyone alright? Anybody hurt?” He would yell, before checking me for any wounds. “Hernandez, we need to set up an evac!” Joseph looked at the couch in the corner, his eyes filling with rage and sadness. “...that's right. Hernandez is dead” I tried to get him to snap out of it by shaking him. He shoved me away before advancing on me, pistol drawn. “It was you. You were the one who did this to Hernandez! He had a family! His wife was pregnant with his son! Now...” I stared at him in sheer terror as he stuck the barrel in my mouth as I tried to plead for my life. I remember the taste of his carbon steel Colt M1911 as he lowered the hammer on the safety. “...He's dead. I pray to God, you have a family. I ask him to give me the strength to pull the trigger, leaving your worthless corpse half blown to hell for them to see. I want you to know the pain, the fear, Hernandez felt as he died. I want...” “Joseph, it's me, Marlin! You're son! Please, don't kill me!” I sobbed, barrel in my mouth. I heard the click as he prepared to pull the trigger. It was too late. Joseph was gone.