Chapter 2

The sun was beaming through her blinds, causing the woman to stir. Usually, waking up was a simple task for Angela; she was a morning person; she groaned when the first beam of sunlight hit her face.

Angela picked up her nightstand alarm clock and looked at the time.

"Ugh, why is it so early?" She placed her clock back on the surface and slowly began to sit up. She put her hand to her head which was throbbing. "Nothing, a little Excedrin, can't handle." Crawling out of her warm bed, she walked to her bathroom, took two pills, and poured tap water into her rinse cup. Once she had taken her medicine, she jumped into a warm shower, washing away any residue.

When she was done, she headed downstairs; her mother had set the table for breakfast.

Angela somehow had a feeling of confidence and an urge to get out of the house. Not only had her mother lied to her about her biological dad, but she had made her live with this monster all her life.

Angela felt sick in her stomach looking at this coward of a man.

"Good Morning, Mom and Dad."

Her mother looked up, surprised at her sudden tone of happiness.

"Good Morning, honey," said her mom, "how did you sleep with this storm?"

"Like a baby," she answered, sounding cheerful."

She caught her dad's eye looking at her; he had a look of annoyance and disgust; nothing new, Angela thought; at least now she knew why; her Amazonian figure sat well on her wafer-thin body. She had a decanter-shaped waist, and her complexion had an impeccable, ochrous hue. Her pencil-thin eyebrows eased down gently to her black, beetle's-leg eyelashes. A sculptor could not have fashioned her seraph's ears and pixie's nose any better.

Her beguiling, oyster-white teeth lit up the room when she broke into a smile. It could jolt you like an electric current when that megawatt smile gave you her full attention.

Filed to perfection, her Venus-red fingernails ran through her nougat-brown hair. Spools of it plunged around her photogenic face and hid a swan's neck, elegant and smooth. I loved her nebulous, Eden-green eyes, which sparkled with the 'Joie de Vivre.

They were like two beryl-green jewels melted onto the snow.

Her calamine-pink lips tasted like rose petals. It surprised others that they were plump and Botox-boosted as she had a timid, shy personality.

She whispered to me in a dulcet voice as sweet as any songbird. Her voguish clothes kept captive an aroma redolent of cinnamon and meadow-fresh mint. It lingered in the room long after she had gone.

"Where is your brother?" Her dad asked in an annoyed tone.

Angela nudged her shoulder, " what does that mean?

"I don't know, dad."

"He's in bed. Go and wake him up!"

Angela got up from her chair and walked upstairs; I can't wait to get out of this hell hole."

Angela knocked on her brother's door, slowly pushing it open. His bed had been made up, the curtains were open, and the window; Angela had walked over to the window looking out; all she could see were broken trees and bins tilted over.

Where has Jack gone to? He was nowhere to be seen, Angela heard the toilet flush, and she walked over to the bathroom, "Jack, is that you?" There was no response, Jack. "Yes, it's me; who else would it be?"

Jack was facing the bathroom mirror; his shoulder-length, silky black hair looked messy.

Jack touched his neck, and the scar on his neck was still visible; he remembered that day as if it was yesterday when he and his brother Keagan were on their way to the shop; it had been raining for hours now. The steady patter of water against his raincoat faded to a dull rush in the back of his mind. The thick wool was almost soaked. He didn't know if it would ever be dry again.

They had tramped their way along the rutted, muddy trail in uncomfortable silence. It was supposed to be a full moon tonight. Not that he could tell since he was only ten years old; the clouds above stopped any light from aiding through the narrow path they walked to the shop. He had a torch in his bag-any good man does-but God knows it wouldn't light in this downpour.

A sharp gust of wind shook the trees above their heads, showering the already miserable frame with a fresh deluge. They had wiped the water from their eyes with a wet sleeve, and out of nowhere, the dark figure was approaching, his eyes widening with madness. He was carrying what looked like a blade, long, sharp, and glistening with damp red blood.

They were afraid, but there was no running; the figure was too close to them, and even though they longed to escape, their bodies felt paralyzed. He couldn't move. He couldn't shriek. He couldn't grasp. Felt hollow and numb, like a skull emptied of live flesh. The shock had wrapped around his body, battling down his throat. "It is their time to die he thought.

Feeling cold, vulnerable, scared, and soaked from the rain, there was no point in resisting. Exhaustion succumbed, and all that went through his mind as if it was just a bad dream that would end; lightning struck, lightening up the dark; Jeremy was a year older than him and tried to protect his brother by standing in front of Jack.

"Empty your pockets said the deep voice." Jeremy emptied his pockets and came across a chain he was holding onto for their mother.

"This chain doesn't belong to me. Please take everything and leave the chain." He pleaded; that's when the dark figure grabbed Jack and placed the knife blade on his throat.

"You do not want to mess with me, kid."

Jeremy handed the chain, even though there was a cut on Jack's throat from the sharp blade that pushed against it. Jack never felt it; Jeremy saw the blood dripping down his throat; Jeremy pulled out a pocket knife. Jack screamed “no” as the man hauled to Jeremy and stabbed him several times; Jack ran up to him to save his brother; when the man was about to stab Jack, two guys with pistols came running up to them. The guy saw the two men he ran as they fired shots.

The guy had disappeared into the darkness; His brother lay bleeding on the sidewalk in the rain. He was eleven years old and wore a pale blue Sunderland football shirt.

printed across the back of the shirt was a print of the number 11

He had been stabbed five minutes ago. The knife had entered the left side of his chest, tearing a wide gap in his flesh. The rain was pouring, and the pavement absorbed all the blood from his wound.

He had felt the excruciating pain as the knife plunged into his chest, then the sudden relief as the jagged blade was pulled from his body. Jeremy had heard the words, "you will be okay" he was losing a lot of blood as he saw two elderly men frantic on the phone; one guy held a cloth on the stab wounds applying pressure.

His body was on the ground, the warmth of life stolen away by death's cold embrace. Synced with the impact to the concrete floor, Jack promptly sprinted to his brother, ignoring the fatigue in his swaying legs set in from the ongoing battle. Jack was desperate to find any flickers of life or hope left in his brother but was met with cold silence broken only by the breeze gently blowing the cold air into his face. Looking up at the two men, the despaired expressions on their faces, he could tell. Jeremy was gone.

He had never felt that vulnerable and alone; at that moment, the cold air never bothered he sat on his knees, helping, endlessly crying. When he heard a siren from far, The ambulance came with aggressive speed, the kind of sheer driving audacity that let everyone know the siren wasn't a polite request to move.

The two men ran to the center of the road; as the ambulance stopped, two paramedics ran over to Jeremy, they had checked for a pulse and tried to resuscitate him, but he was long gone. It had been over half an hour since the incident.

Jack sat in silence in the rain, looking at his brother's motionless body covered in blood.

When the paramedic shook his head, Jack knew his brother was dead. That low-life scum took the chain his brother was holding onto.

He swore he would get revenge. Being at this young age and going through such trauma has affected him, causing sleepless nights and having a replay of the scene in his dreams.