Corrupt (Devil's Night 1)

I put it into gear and speed down the road, heading straight to my house.

Leaving the car running, I hop out and walk to the garden shed, digging out a shovel and going back to my car.

My ears turn cold from the October chill, but the rest of my body is still on fire from the fight.

She looked at me just like my father always did. As if everything I do is wrong.

I bottle up what’s inside me—the anger and this need I can’t explain. Something inside of me wants to self-destruct, wants to make messes, and wants to do the things others won’t do.

&n

bsp; I don’t want to hurt people, but the more time that passes, the more it feels like I’m trying to crawl out of my head.

I want chaos.

And I’m tired of being powerless. I’m tired of him keeping me down.

I tried to do the hard thing today. The thing no one else would do but had to be done.

And she’d looked at me just like him. Like there was something wrong with me.

Tossing the shovel in the car, I race down the driveway and make my way to the only place I can think of.

St. Killian’s.

Pulling up outside the old cathedral, I keep the headlights on and walk around to the side, starting to dig the hole. The dog hadn’t had a collar, and it can’t stay exposed long enough for me to find its owner, so I have to bury it.

And this is the one place I like, so it makes sense to do it here.

After digging the hole about two feet deep, I return to my car and open the back door, hearing notifications from my cell phone up on the front seat.

The guys are probably wondering where the hell I am.

I was supposed to go home and collect our stock of toilet paper, spray paint, and nails for some Devil’s Night pranks. The same boring shit we always do before we go get drunk at the warehouse.

I cradle the dog in my arms, leaving him wrapped in the blankets, and carry him to the hole, kneeling down and gently placing him in.

The blood had soaked through the towel, and my hand is stained red. I wipe it off on my jeans and then take the shovel again, filling in the hole.

When I’m done, I stand there, leaning on the long wooden handle of the shovel as I stare at the mound of fresh dirt.

You’re weak.

Nothing.

Stop pissing me off.

I’d said the same things to her that my father says to me. How could I do that?

She isn’t weak. She’s a kid.

I’m angry at my father, and I’m angry that she pulls at me as much as she does. Ever since we were little.

And I’m angry that I grew up so pissed off about everything. There’s not much that makes me feel good.

But I shouldn’t have hurt her. How could I have said those things? I wasn’t him.

I let out a breath, seeing the cold steam expel from my mouth. It’s freezing out here, and the chill finally seeps into my bones, reminding me that I’d left her. Alone. In the dark. In the cold.