William Margrove

I dodged a fist that was coming for my face, I grabbed it at the wrist with my right hand and then brought it down as I lifted my knee.

Crunch

"Aaaahhh!" The thug yelled as his bone was now protruding out of his arm and his buddies were laid out on the ground either unconscious or wishing they were. I delivered a kick to the back of the guy's head and he was put to sleep, so I began tying them all up. I could hear the sirens of the cops that the woman I had saved called.

I sneak off back down the alley and get away before the cops come. You might be wondering why I would be running from the cops after I saved the lady from the thugs. Well that's because I'm what you might refer to as a vigilante. How did I become a vigilante you ask? Well it all started when my parents got into a car accident when I was 7 years old.

Though, I imagine it didn't help that I was the one who cut their brakes before they left for their party. I guess it really started even a little before that though, as you would imagine that someone admitting to killing his parents would have a reason. And boy do I.

You see growing up in the Margrove household was a bit different than your standard Georgian home life. My parents were abuser, they would cut, burn, hit and verbally abuse me for any little thing. Most of the time for just existing. Wack right? Well little me didn't know this, I had been told that it was because I was a bad child and that I deserved it. And if I didn't want people to know how bad of a child I was, I couldn't show them or they might hate me.

Cue going through 6 years of life in this kind of environment. However their abuse led to me isolating myself and reading anything I could get my hand on. That's how I eventually found out that the way they treated me was not the normal thing all parents do. I wasn't supposed to get a cigarette burn on my chest for spilling a little water, or a cut on the foot whenever I made too much noise going to the bathroom at night.

Though that's not to say they didn't just do it for no reason sometimes too, especially when they were drunk. I wisened up quick and would lock myself up in my room if I knew they were going to be drunk, but even that wasn't enough sometimes if they got really drunk. Which all lead to me finally deciding to get my revenge on them.

While they were at work I would be at the local library, studying anything I could find. I eventually came across a book that talked about car parts and how brakes actually have a fluid that runs to them. With that I plotted my parents death. Every Friday night they would go out in the town and get really drunk, well this time they wouldn't be making it.

A few hours before I had crawled underneath the car with a kitchen knife and I cut the tubes that carried the brake fluid and a massive grin spread across my face as I saw the liquid begin to drip from the tubes. As you can guess later on some cops came by to let me know that my parents had died in a "car accident".

They had apparently lost control and plowed straight into a telephone pole that felt and ignited the gas that was leaking out of the car. It burned up in minutes. They even tried to console me by saying they had died on impact. To which I did the dutiful thing pretended to cry over my parents deaths.

Those books on facial expressions and how to act really came in handy because inside all I could feel was relief and happiness of being rid of those monsters. I guess here is where I should say that my parents were rich, mega rich compared to the average King's County resident. Since I didn't have any relatives to try and claim it and my parents never wrote a will, I got all their life insurance money as well as the majority shares in the company they worked at/owned.

Now if I had been a little older I might have decided to keep the company and maybe try to take it bigger heights, but as a 7 year old I wanted nothing to do with it. So to the delight of the other shareholders I sold the off the shares my parents owned which was 60% combined between the 2 of them. I sold the house I had lived in and after a couple weeks of staying in a foster home I found a caretaker that I liked and we lived into a smaller house that liked deeper into the country if King's County.

As an avid reader of comics and fantasy/superhero books I obviously picked the Alfred looking type. He was old and officially listed as a butler, but qualified for what I needed as well. In his younger years he had served in the US special forces, sadly not British, but what can you do? I lived with him for the next 8 years having him teach me all the different martial arts he knew, specifically Krav Maga. As well teaching me weapon based combat and obviously firearm training.

After hearing some of the stories he told I had decided that I wanted to become special forces like him and if I could get an early head start the better. Marcus was his name, and he didn't slack off on my training just because I was a kid. He taught me strictly and wouldn't take any complaints. If I complained, then training was called off for that day.

Though even my time with him ended after those 8 years when he died of a heart attack. I guess he wasn't Alfred material after all, how are you going to die of a heart attack after all those missions. So now I was 15 and alone again, but at least this time I didn't have to get another caretaker. I could live how I wanted, with no one to tell me how to live.

I even inherited Marcus' stuff since he didn't have any kin, which meant I got all his weapons even ones that he hadn't shown or told me about. I hired people to build a bunker like basement under my house where I would house all the weapons and even equipped it with a training room. Which is how I've lived my life up to this point.

My day starts with me waking up and going for a couple hour run, and then coming back and practicing my martial arts as well as my armed combat techniques. I would practice with one weapon until I became proficient in its use before moving on to the next one. After that I would head to the shooting range that I had built in the large field behind my house. I mostly only had pistols, but I had a couple semi automatic rifles and a few hunting rifles as well as shotguns.

I usually finished this routine around 1pm where I would have the rest of the day to study up on a new topic that had caught my interest or just relax and read my my comics. At night is when I would do my vigilante work, which I guess brings us back to question of why I became a vigilante even though I said I was going to become special forces.

Well that would be because I realized that if I joined the military I would no longer be free to do what I wanted. I'd have to take orders from a superior, where as if I became a vigilante I wouldn't have to answer to anyone!

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I finally make it back to my truck, and head off back for home which is about 20 minutes outside the main part of the city. A long dirt road takes me to my house that is obscured in the trees of a small forest. Once inside I head straight to my bathroom to get washed up.

Standing in front of the mirror I still have my vigilante outfit on. Standing 6 foot 3 inches tall I have a tight, but stretchy long sleeved black shirt. With a thing that looks like military vest over it that holds my throwing knives, no metal exposed so that they don't catch any light on them. My long sleeved shirt also has a hood that fits snugly on my head as well as piece that comes up on the front to cover up just above my nose. My pants could quite literally be called the stereotypical ninja pants and then I had normal completely black sports shoes.

Pulling back my hood released my crazy brown hair that just had no real way to be tamed, which is why I normally wore a hat whenever I wasn't at home. I had bright blue eyes, but they appeared lazy and disinterested. Though that was just a facade, people tend to notice eyes first and that can shape their initial opinion of you. Pulling down my face covering reveals my handsome and sharp almost angular features. I guess one decent thing my parents did for me was give me bone structure and facial features.

I would need to shave soon, I don't like my facial hair getting too long. Usually keeping it at a nice light stubble. I unzipped my knife vest at the sides under my armpits and pulled it off over my head. Quickly followed by my shirt, which revealed my lean yet muscular body as well as my many scars. I don't even flinch anymore when I see them, but the memories still flash through my head.

In my normal day to day clothes you would never suspect I was in such good shape, sure you could tell I wasn't fat, but you could compare my body to that of an Olympic swimmer. I quickly remove the rest of my clothing and hop into the shower. Marcus always tried to get me to take cold showers and I do most of the time, but every once in a while I like to indulge myself in a hot shower.

My phone goes off with an alarm and checking I see that it's October 31st. My birthday. Putting my phone back down I finish my shower, and get dressed in house clothes. Just a pair of gym shirts and a Tshirt, and head into the kitchen. Specifically to a cabinet by the fridge and grab a box with an envelope on top of it.

"Open on your 21st Birthday"

-Marcus

Inside the box was another note as well as a bottle, specifically a bottle of Savannah 88 Bourbon. Grabbing the note I open it up to read it as well.

"If you're reading this then I probably died some way or another. I can't say you'll be too sad about it, but perhaps that's for the best. Someone like me don't need people feeling sad for them. Anyways it's your 21st birthday if you actually waited, which I'm sure you did. Congrats kid, you survived this world a lot longer than anyone in your position probably should have.

I saw them damn scars that covered your body and your parents weren't already dead I'd have killed them myself. Damn bastards abusing a kid… Fuck, got a little carried away. Anyways kid I'm hoping the best for you. Get out there and find yourself a girlfriend and start a family if you haven't already. I don't know what kind of scars or emotional trauma you might have, but maybe raising a kid the way you should have been raised will help you.

You're a smart kid and I'm sure you'll figure everything out. Good luck Will."

-Marcus

I flipped the page over to see if anything was on the back to just find a blank page. He's right though I can't say I was particularly sad when he died, but I did have a tremendous amount of respect for the man. I fold the note back up and put it back inside the box as I pull out the bottle. I cut the seal and take out the cork. Looking into the cabinet by the sink I grab out one of Marcus' old shot glasses and fill it with the bourbon. I walk out into the front porch where Marcus used to sit and smoke his cigar with a cup of bourbon during the afternoon.

I down the first shot and paused right before I was going to pour one out for him like you see in the shows, except something he said popped up in my memory.

"Remember Will, never waste good liquor. We had a thing in the military if a squad mate died we wouldn't pour out any for them, instead we all took an extra shot, swig whatever you want to do. No use in wasting good liquor on the ground, I know that I would rather someone drink my share in remembrance rather than getting the ants drunk."

So before I could pour it out, I quickly downed it and then sat in his chair and just listened to the nighttime sounds of birds and insects. Eventually I got up and went to bed to get ready to start it all over tomorrow. I'm working on machetes tomorrow, mostly just brushing up on them so that I don't forget anything. I sink into my bed and slowly fall asleep.