I should be dead.

Instead, I sit at the gate, waiting for my flight, picking at my nails that still have his blood in crescent moons underneath. My head throbs behind my eyes and my nose is still sensitive from the impact of his fist from the night prior.

Pulling my hood over my head to try and hide the bruises and scratches on my face, I chew the inside of my tender cheek.

There’s nothing yet everything in front of me. I’m free but shackled to an escape. A plan.

I stare through the airport window, watching the sun rise and glisten on the ocean’s surface I spent my entire life in. I love my parents for creating such a safe space for me, a magical childhood.

I’ll miss this place. I’ll miss the five-minute walk to the beach, running around barefoot in a bikini all day, working in my parents’ garden, and painting in the forest of trees that surrounds the yellow home I grew up in. I’ll miss the feel of salty sun kissed skin after a day spent in the ocean.

The last call for my flight sounds, making my heart race as I feel the weight of it all, like an anchor trying to keep me in the only place I’ve ever known.

Something else, something foreign, is telling me to get on that plane. Tugging me in that direction so profoundly, I have no choice but to listen.

Picking up my backpack, I throw it over my shoulder and remain still, as the war in my heart fights with my mind.

Stay or go.

I hear the call ring out one last time from overhead.

My eyes linger on the sunrise I’m so familiar with. The one I watched with my family almost every morning in our backyard. Tears well up in my eyes at the idea that I may never be able to come back.

It will still be the same sun wherever I go next.

As I turn my back to the rising sun, I fall victim to that tug pulling me from all that I know, as I walk through the gate without looking back.

TYLER

The clock strikes midnight as I sit on my couch in front of the fire with a bourbon in hand. And just like that, I’m twenty-nine years old.

Memories take over me and suddenly I’m twenty years in the past, back to when I was a little boy sitting in a hospital bed, watching the clock strike for my ninth birthday.

I sat there, wondering why my father hadn’t been arrested—since he was the one that put me there. Even back then, I knew it was the worst it could get, as I sat in that hospital bed while my father pulled strings to wipe out the records.

It was only a short time before our last name was plastered onto the wall of the pediatric wing, in honor of a generous donation. One that covered up any evidence I was there, fighting for a life that he tried to take from me. I honestly would have let him do it, if it weren’t for my sister and mother. Someone had to protect them and that task defaulted to me.

He yelled as he hit me, that “you cannot save anyone, not even yourself.” Maybe that’s why he is the way he is, because no one saved him.

I always clung to the hope that he would somehow change. It was the naivety that comes with being a child that made me hopeful the man who sired me would turn for the better. That maybe we could finally be the family I always craved and cried for. Then maybe I wouldn’t have to worry about the bruises he’d put on my body. That one day it would finally stop. My birthday gifts would no longer be bruises, but actual presents I could unwrap. Something that was mine.

That night was just a reminder that it never would stop, it still hasn’t to this day, but at least I knew the worst was over. Because even then, at nine years old, I knew death would be so much easier than that.

I wish I still felt that way, hopeful.

Growing up and seeing my parents flaws, I knew they would never change. It’s like losing your religion. After that night, I didn’t believe in god anymore. Not after he ignored all my unanswered tears and prayers. Not when I begged my mother to leave, but she simply ignored me, despite the fists I took in her place.

My father truly believed it was the only way to make me the man I needed to be. When ultimately, it was preparation for who he needed me to be.

You must be calloused, and how can you toughen up without some friction?

No, I don’t believe in god anymore. I no longer believe in my father, either. That hope I clung to dissipated along with my soul, my humanity. I buried who I was supposed to be deep in a grave and stopped grieving that version of myself the moment I laid the last of the soil down. It was in that hospital bed I decided I’d be the man I needed to be, the man that he had told me to be.

Not prey, but a predator.

Because without my humanity, he could no longer hurt me.

No one could.

Two weeks into my twenty-ninth year, I rub my face as my twin sister talks a million words a minute. We aren’t actually twins, everyone just calls us that because we’re Irish twins, born less than a year apart. Ironically, her being the older of the two of us despite being the immature one.

She lays sprawled on my couch, playing on her phone as words continue to spill from her in an array of color and vulgarity for such an early hour of the morning. Running a hand through my short brown hair, I listen distantly as I lazily pour my coffee in my mug.

I made pour over this morning, hoping it will revive me. It had been a restless night, tossing and turning in my bed after a long night on a hunt. A personal hit of mine for a man who thought it would be a good idea to mess with my sister. He’s one out of four I have my eyes on.

One down, three more to go.

Sam puts her phone down. “Anthony should be here soon, too. Then we can all walk to work together,” she chimes. “Have you heard from Cole?”

“Sam,” I breathe in a yawn while rubbing my eyes with my thumb and forefinger.

It’s too early for this.

Grabbing my coffee, I head over to the couches and sit down with her in the living room of my townhome. It doesn’t appease my parents, considering it’s minimal compared to the penthouse they wanted me to take above our company building.

Space is necessary, especially because this job already consumes a lot of my life. Besides, I enjoy my little townhome. A safe space for my friends, who are more family than my own flesh and blood. It’s my safe space. Which is far and few in between.

“Tyler,” Sam catches my attention.

Her amber eyes narrow on me – a contrast to the green I inherited from our father. Though we both have brown hair, hers is streaked with hot pink, in pigtail buns most days. Our parents never really cared for the animation my sister portrays in her appearance, but I admire it. I love that she stays true to herself when our parents try so hard to suffocate it. She’s a rainbow in a world full of gray.

“Yes, Sam?” I take a sip of my coffee, letting its smooth taste revive my tired bones.

Being a hitman for my own company doesn’t leave a lot of room for hobbies, but thankfully coffee is one I’ve been able to keep. Eventually, I’d love to invest in a coffee farm or grower. I order beans from across the globe, which my sister attributes to being a coffee snob.

“Have you heard from Cole?” She asks again.

“You know how he is Sam. He will talk when he wants to talk.”

The anniversary of Cole’s father’s death passed. That isn’t necessarily the reason he’s been absent the last few days. He is finishing up the business we handled last night while continuing research on the rest of our prey.

Much like myself, he grew up in a rough environment. His father left him and his mother to fend for themselves. So the anniversary is just a reminder of who he could’ve been if he had had a father figure in his life. Proof that maybe we all aren’t so different after all. We all do what we need to do to survive.

All it took was a bar fight between the two of us to realize we’d be so much more powerful together. Once we were kicked out of Martha’s, we found an old corner liquor store and spent the night on the curb, talking about our pasts and how we may not be so different after all. He needed a job and I needed more people in our company on my side. Through that, an unexpected brotherhood was formed, and the rest is history.

“You look like trash.” Sam eyes me, pulling me from the memory.

“Thank you,” I say sarcastically.

“Are you okay?”

She’s nosy. I love my sister dearly, but she’s definitely…Sam.

“Just didn’t sleep well.” I admit.

She just stares at me, her eyes turning to slits. “Is it Shelby?”

“Sam, for the love of God.” I run a hand over my tired face.

I don’t want to keep talking about that.

“Hey all I’m saying is…”

I cut her off and stand before she opens that can of worms. “I’m going to go get ready.”

“Yeah yeah, put a shirt on,” She waives a dismissive hand at me.

Some content on the website is uploaded by users. If it infringes on your rights, please contact us.