1 Prologue

David was dead.

No, really. Not yet.

But he would be dead if he was caught slinking around town like a man in a trance and someone told his parents.

Pulling the hood of his sweater further over his head, he hastened his steps, thankful that the rubber soles of his sneakers made no sound against the pavement.

The night enveloped him in an inky darkness, it's biting chill wrapped around him, each breath turning into frosty puffs in front of his face. It wasn't raining but it almost felt like it with the way fog fairies danced in his vision and the sleet settled on his skin. No matter how many breathing exercises he attempted, his racing heart refused to yield; the drumbeat of anxiety echoing in his chest just kept on beating, so he gave up.

Coming to a standstill at the intersection, he hesitated, his gaze flickering in every direction like the torn wings of a trapped butterfly. Once he'd made sure the coast was clear, he continued moving.

Beneath the soles of his sneakers, the deserted streets echoed his footsteps. It was about 1 a.m, he wouldn't usually be outside his apartment this late if he were still in the city but, luckily, he wasn't in the city.

And that was exactly why he was dead.

When he'd ducked out of his apartment earlier that evening, he would have loved for his destination to be anywhere but the town he grew up in but here he was, back in Havenfield; just a few streets away from his parents house and walking down another familiar street where he knew the occupants of every one of the prim white suburban homes lining the street.

The house with way too many flamingo models on the lawn? Mrs. Sweeny, his high-school English teacher. The one with two American flags hanging off the window ledges? Captain Hunt, an old veteran who'd been in town since before David was even born. The house with the bright yellow mailbox that the HOA was probably too nice to say anything about? Mr and Mrs Voture, parents to his kindergarten classmate. He'd been at that house many times as a kid, sipping lemonade in the summertime and playing cops and robbers on the lawn.

None of them could know he was here.

That was the only reason why he was outside walking in the freezing cold instead of just taking a taxi or an Uber to his destination. He was pretty sure Uber didn't even operate in town and all the taxi drivers probably knew his parents. They weren't celebrities or politicians, his dad was a dentist and his mum worked as his secretary but still, owning the only dental practice in town was basically celebrity status; David had heard about way too many people's oral hygiene over dinner—it wasn't easy to look people in the eye after you'd learnt they'd had their rotten teeth pulled out.

Whichever the case, the roads were clear, it was late at night and soon he'd be—

"Bless my sore eyes," a thick, husky voice drawled. The words hung in the cold air, a pregnant pause that stretched like a taut wire, until finally, it uttered, "Is that Little David?"

David's breath hitched, a silent curse echoing in the recesses of his mind.

Fuck.

He'd been so preoccupied in his thoughts that he hadn't noticed Old Man McMichael slumped over at the base of a 'STOP' sign. To be honest, he'd thought the man was a pile of trash which was an offense to piles of trash everywhere.

Old Man McMichael stumbled to his feet and David battled the urge to pinch his nostrils shut; the man reeked of alcohol.

"It is you," the man croaked with a grin. "I still got that 20/20 vision, I tell ya." and David thought that, if there was ever anyone that needed his dad's services, it was Old Man McMichael. His vision may have been 20/20 but his dentition was 15/32.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, sir," David gritted through his teeth.

"Stop with that 'sir' business," the old man replied with a wry chuckle. "It makes me feel old."

With his thinning, wispy hair, non-existent hairline, wrinkled face and stooped posture, he was old but David wouldn't be the one to tell him that. Besides, he had other things to worry about:

"Eh, when did you get into town?" The man asked, rummaging through the pockets of his huge, green parka. "I saw your old man earlier today; he didn't mention nothing."

And, there it was, the thing David had been avoiding all day. The first thing that came to his mind was, 'Why would he say anything? That man doesn't give a shit about me.' The second was, 'You don't give a shit about me either.' And the third wasn't a thought—it was a feeling, an emotion that exploded in his brain like a firework and burned his very core; rage. White, hot rage.

The thing about living in a town as small as his was that everyone knew everyone—everyone looked out for everyone. He could feel the love in the way they smiled and passed around firm hugs and handshakes after Sunday service. It was in the way people showed up at his parents door with warm, home cooked meals every other weekend. Their love was a cool glass of lemonade on a hot day, a heated blanket in the frost, a smile in troubling times.

But the other thing about living in a town as small as his is that it was easy to see just how superficial that love was. The hushed whispers, the judgmental glances, the backhanded comments. David had experienced their love first hand; he'd drank the lemonade and eaten the casserole. So it only hurt more when he came to church with badly-covered-up bruises and everyone just... looked away. He found that abuse wasn't really abuse when it was done by a church elder.

"I'm going to surprise him tomorrow," he finally replied with a lie.

"It ain't his birthday, is it?"

"Nah."

He waited for the old man to ask another question but he didn't. Instead, after minutes of rummaging, he finally pulled out a pack of gum from his pocket and shook a stick out of it.

"Nicotine gum," he explained. "I'm tryna' quit smoking."

David said: "That's good."

Then Old Man McMichael pushed the piece of gum into his mouth and said, "Hey, let's go surprise your dad together tomorrow," he glanced up at David. "I could go 'Look who I found wanderin' around. That would be cool."

It was the way he said it—the tone, the glance—that sent chills running down David's spine. Like the old man knew something he didn't. No, not like, he did know. He knew why David never came back home for the holidays, he knew why he left in the first place, he probably knew that, on his left thigh, there was a bullet wound. The spot his father shot him when he was just 11.

To teach him discipline.

It was always to teach him discipline.

David's knuckles clenched and he bit down on his lower lip to keep from screaming. Calm down, you can still fix this.

Then an idea struck him.

"Or... we could head over to The Barrel and I'll buy you a drink."

David knew he'd caught him when he saw the old man's eyes light up. He might have been trying to quit smoking but, judging by the stench of alcohol bathing him, he still couldn't resist a drink.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously," David confirmed. "My treat."

The two men started walking. David pretended to listen to the old man while they moved, grunting and commenting with an occasional 'Yup,' 'S'that so?' and 'Really!' at appropriate intervals. His mind was miles away, back at the apartment he shared with his roommates and best friends. He hadn't told them where he was going, he didn't think they'd understand. Still, the guilt clawed at the base of his throat like a rabid animal.

Before he could dwell on it further, The Barrel came into view the next corner, the neon sign of a pirate sitting on a barrel with a bubbling cup of mead glowing in the darkness of midtown after 12am. David nearly sighed with relief; he was safe.

"FI. NAL. LY!" Old Man McMichael groaned dramatically. "I'm thirstier than a camel at a sandpaper convention!"

That actually got a chuckle out of David, but that was probably just the sheer joy running through his veins working. He'd succeeded in distracting the anomaly. He couldn't go into the bar; that would be counterproductive.

Instead, he stopped and pulled his wallet out of his pocket, eyeing the notes in it. That should be enough for at least three mugs of the house beer.

"Hey, Mister McMichael."

"Just Simon," the old man sighed. "Please."

There was no time or reason to protest but David sure as shit wasn't going to call him that. Instead, he said: "Why don't you go on ahead without me." Pushing the crisp dollar bills into the mans hands, he winked and said with a smile, "To wet your tongue while you wait."

All fifteen teeth went on full display as McMicheal looked at the money in his hands. "Sure you're not going to join me, son?"

Son? David cringed. If you don't want to feel old, don't call me 'son'.

Forcing on a smile, David replied, "Nah," he hooked a thumb towards the alley behind him. "Gotta take a leak."

It was only after he gave the explanation that he realized he didn't even have to say anything. The old man had stopped paying attention to him the moment he had cash in his hands. If David were in his shoes, he'd say something along the lines of, 'Well, there's a bathroom in the bar' or 'You can hold it till we've had a few shots.' But free money for free booze was enough reason to discard all thought. David watched the greedy old man lick his lips. His nicotine gum dropped from his mouth to the floor.

"Well, that's fine," Old Man McMichael said. "I'll be waiting."

David nodded once, turned around and strolled into the alley. He only needed to stand facing the moss stained brick wall with his hands at his crotch for a few minutes—until he saw sure the man was in the bar and he could make a break for it.

In the meantime, he let his mind wander. He had an assignment to get back to, hopefully one of his roommates was gracious enough to pick up his course notes. He was a bit hungry, was it too late to order a pepperoni pizza? Should he check his messages, surely his inbox would be full by now.

"Hey son!"

David didn't even bother to glance over his shoulder. "Watching me pee, old man?" He only half joked. "That's creepy as hell."

The silence that met him was deafening. David frowned. He was tired of pretending to pee but something didn't feel right...

He tried to turn around. Key word: tried. For some strange reason, David couldn't move. He was locked in place as if by some invisible force. Cold beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and slid down his cheek as he tried to calm his now racing heart.

"Old Man..." he stuttered.

"Old Man?" A deep, cold voice replied. "I've never heard that one before."

The moment David heard the voice, his mind fractured.

Memories he didn't even know he had forgotten flooded his mind. All from the past month of his life—

No. He sullenly reminded himself. The last month of his life.

He remembered now; remembered getting home from a bar crawl with his best friends and feeling like he'd been marked by death. The hollowness in his chest. The iciness of his hands. The bile like acid burning the back of his throat.

It was just the alcohol, he'd thought—the aftereffects of a wild night out.

But everyday since then had been the worst possible kind of hell. The kind that only he could feel.

There was someone watching him. He knew it. His friends advised him to take his anxiety meds, to relax a little bit. Their concern was well meaning but he knew what he felt. He knew that dreaming about being a lamb on an altar at the mercy of the tip of a blade was not normal. He knew day didn't suddenly turn to night and back to day in the blink of an eye. But he'd seen it. He'd seen it all.

When he hopped on a bus and drove to the town he grew up in, he'd done so on autopilot. Why would he be back here when he fucking hated his parents? When the last thing he told them was he never wanted to see them again?

In that moment he remembered why.

He'd come to say goodbye.

"Please," David said. One word. A prayer.

The voice chuckled darkly. "How about...no."

He didn't feel the moment when his head severed from his neck and, for that, he was thankful. What he did feel was the warm blood soaking his chest. The finality of death blurring his vision. The sharp pain of his knees hitting the pavement.

David was dead and his final thought before everything completely faded to black was how embarrassing it was to die clutching his crotch.