Twisted Fates Chap. One

Prologue


January 07, 2007
My name is Aden and this is my story. Before I officially begin you should be told that I write this for no one but myself.  I have never exceeded at being a crowd pleaser, and I don't plan to start now. What you call it, is simply your business. Like I said, I’m not a pleaser in anyway shape or form. I do hope you learn something from my mistakes, anything at all. What do I call it? My life, ruled by angels and devils-- both trying their hardest to pull me to either side... Shall I properly introduce myself? I really think I should, after all, I am the main and only character you need be concerned about. I am Aden Da Nerezza; I am 6’2” and have short, almost white blonde hair that curls in the front. About my eyes, they are black- one of the only things I inherited from my father. I have thick eyebrows which are a little darker than my hair. My nose is narrow and proportioned to the rest of my face. I have features that are always continuously animated. It can look very mean at times- this face, but then again it could be very generous looking. It just depends on whether you think of me of the demon or the angel of valor, but I’m skipping ahead of my story.
Do you still want to know who, and what I am? Then read further. I am a sinner. Which is what we all are guilty of, but I’m not pointing any fingers at anyone. No. Simply stating a fact. I am a sinner. Nothing more, nothing less. I remember when I was whole, complete... innocent...


Chapter One: 1981

It happened late into afternoon, I remember this because it was a week after my 10th birthday. Something horrible happened that day. My father was one of those extreme alcoholics who when drunk, argued and hit my mother. He did everything under the sun-- drugs, gangs, theft jobs. You name it... he did it.
We were happy my mother and I --that is until the night came when he got too drunk. He and my mother got in a fight over something stupid. I was watching TV at the time. I heard screaming from the kitchen and the sound of glass shattering against the wall. I heard him yelling at her, telling her she was nothing but a thing and that she should be dealt with as soon as possible, that she never did anything right and there was no use keeping her. I then remember him dragging her into the living room by her elbow and telling her to say goodbye to me.
“I love you. Everything will be fine,” she said tears welling up in her crystal blue eyes; her face was paler than usual. She held me in her arms closely, and I wrapped my tiny fingers around her golden locks, breathing in her perfume. It smelled of vanilla- cherry, one of her favorite fragrances to wear.
I looked up at my father only to find him looking back down at me. His black eyes burning and glazed with a scowl on his face. At that moment in her arms, I considered myself powerless against my father and his drunken rage. I remember the last time he got this mad. It was a stormy weekend, Saturday I think, you see I had gotten a bad grade only a few months before, and he had some how found out. He screamed at me for what seemed like hours on end. Then he quickly turned around and got into the secretary that set against the living room wall. He left the living room, strode through the kitchen, past the back porch, and pointed it at my new golden retriever puppy and pulled the trigger; my dog let out a yelp and lay lifeless at the end of his chain. My vicious killer of a father breathed hard and turned to face me.
"This is what happens when you and that thing of a woman make me angry," he muttered and shoved past me to go back to the couch. That night my mother sat with me, running her fingers through my hair until my sobs became quiet, then she began to sing:
“Baby mine, don't you cry, Baby mine, dry your eyes.
Rest your head close to my heart, never to part, baby of mine. Little one when you play, don't you mind what you say. Let those eyes sparkle and shine. Never a tear, baby of mine.”
With the haunting lyrics still fresh in my mind, the present struck me like a thousand ferocious lightning bolts of the present, and his menacing voice boomed…
“Let’s go,” he demanded, tugging her from me. Her fingers slipped out of my outstretched hand, and I had a gut feeling that was the last time I would ever see her again. He jerked her from me soon enough and almost shoved her into their bedroom that was right off the living room. The door shut and I heard muffled cries and sobs from behind it. I heard my father scream at her again and the sound of his hand hitting her flesh. She screamed, and then everything went quiet. I listened, my heart racing wildly and my stomach in my throat, and then I heard him say:
“This is your fault. You made me do this.”
“No please! Jon, No, wait!” I heard my mother scream. Her pleas fell on deaf ears. I heard a gunshot --then two, and finally the third rang clear in the silence of the evening. I hid behind the couch and was on my knees trying to block out the noise with my hands. Shortly after the last gunshot had been fired, I realized that I was rocking back and forth, and I finally calmed myself, about 15 minutes after the gunshots had been shot, by listening to the cartoons on the television.
When I finally did fall asleep, I was wracked with nightmares of my mother crying-- her arms in front of her face trying to shield herself from my father.
I slept close to an hour. Then men pounding on the door awakened me. I was still crouched in my hiding place when they finally broke down the door. The only thing I could think of was that the neighbors had heard the gunshots and alerted them.
All of the men had on black helmets with a glass guards on them and matching black bulletproof jackets. One of the officers strode through the room and stood in front of the bedroom door. He swung it open, gun in air, ready to shoot. I peeked from my hiding place to see his back turned toward me. Looking in beyond him, I saw my mother stretched out on the floor --her white T-shirt drenched in blood, and my father on his knees, slouched over the bed. There was crimson red on the peach bed comforter, both apparently dead.
Tears rolled down my cheeks and onto my neck making it itch as it dried, and I let out a moan. My suspicions had been correct. My chest heaved with the pressure of sorrow. My mother, my dear sweet mother, who gave everything yet never asked for anything. I let out a cry, and then quickly covered my mouth. The officer whipped around and stared. Then without taking his eyes off of me, reached down to the walkie-talkie on his belt and told the other officers what he had found, and told them that I was there. I don’t remember much about that day, but what I remember next would forever change the course of my life.