Not named yet

First chapter and a bit of my book...

Chapter 1:

"And the Prince and the Princess lived happily ever after." Read Miss Smith.

"Thats bullshit. Happy endings never happen. The real ending is 'they got married, the Prince had an affair, the wife had a miscarriage, and the Prince died of Cancer a few years later." Screamed Jackson, he was outraged by such an idiotic story.

"Jackson, go to Mrs. Howard immediately! That was unacceptable behaviour!" Shouted Miss Smith.

"Why? So she can tell me not to swear, halfheartedly because she feels guilty that she's the reason my mother's dead? I might as well go home. I have no reason to be here." Said Jackson carelessly, no-one could doubt that what he said was true. 

He strutted out the classroom and decided he would go for a walk. He was sick of everyone always pretending that the world was a happy place, and everything would always be ok. He knew it wasn't. 

Jackson was eleven years old, but his mother's death had aged him prematurely. He had a nine year old sister, called Emma. She was immature, arrogant and selfish. Everything always had to be her way, and if it wasn't she'd find some way the bring up the fact her mother was dead, and how she never knew who her father was, and so she should get what she wants, to make up for that.

Jackson didn't like his sister, not in an immature way. He generally, didn't like her. He was glad that they had different fathers, it was one step closer to not being related.

His foster family were used to him coming home early, and didn't think much of it. His foster mother, Julie, was kind, and sweet-hearted, but could never lay down a rule. She was in her late forties, with long, dull, black hair, with eyes so dark, you couldn't see the bottom. His foster father wasn't much different, kind, understanding and good-willed. In his forties aswell, going bald with black hair and green eyes fading into blue. But he was always too occupied to spend time with the children, so Jackson and Emma normally spent their time alone, thinking, or talking to friends. 

Jackson didn't really have friends, he had companions, but no-one he could talk to, or trust. Because, Jackson could see things. Things that no-one else could see. He could see and hear the dead. Before and after they had died, he could only see their death and hear their screams, and then their ash shadows melted into the air. He saw the dead wherever he went, he was almost used to it. But just when he thought he had seen everything, he would see some cruel murder, or natural disaster which would stun him for a second, before he regained control, and acted as if nothing had happened, when inside, the moans of torture would haunt him for weeks. He never told anyone this, as if he did, the past, future and present would merge together, and time would split. Everyone would know their own death, and avoid it, which would change the set course of time. He just couldn't tell anyone. It wasn't safe.

He walked down the street angrily, and kept his head down. If only everyone saw what he saw, the deaths, the murders, the pain. If time didn't split, then everyone would understand that death wasn't so bad, and that no-one should be scared all through life, scared of disobeying, scared of loneliness and scared of pain… His train of thought was rudely interrupted when he heard a police siren, and looked up. He watched the car fade into the busy hive, known as London, to attempt to fight crime which would never end. 

The streets were calmer than usual, as it was midday on Tuesday, and not many people were out. He watched the cashiers of shops look out  into the sky thinking of the life they could have had if only they had done better in exams, the business men that tried to look sophisticated as they ran to catch the tube in their big black suits and ties, when inside, they were more immature than the men giving out free newspapers and the teenagers with their own children, walking along, chewing gum and on their phone disrespecting someones mother. Jackson thought it was pointless speculating what could have happened, if the past is the past and nothing could change it, what is the point of regret? It gets you no-where and only makes you want to live in the past.

He stopped walking, and looked ahead of him, watching all the car accidents cripple peoples loved ones and hearing their screams. He didn't think that it was right of him to enjoy watching the deaths, it was so wrong, but so interesting.

Cars made of shadows drove down the main road, hundreds at a time, making the road deafening, all about to collied, and when they did, it was never with the ghost car you expected… Jackson liked to think of it as a game to guess which car would crash into which car. He didn't know whether it was the fact he was jealous of death that made him glow inside when he saw it and heard the victims' desperate cries, or that he was just masochistic…

He paced to the park where he lay down, he felt the cool breeze ruffle his hair and the black blood trickle by his head and pool at his ears, the coarse grass tickled his neck. He remembered the day when he started to see the deaths, the day his mother died.

It was the 9th of July, 2004. Jackson and his Mother were walking to school on Saturday, because the head teacher, Mrs. Howard had asked them to come and help her with the school decorations for the last day of term party, Jackson was five years old and it was a sunny day. They held hands and laughed as they crossed a calm road, his mother was pretending to be an elephant, he held her hand while she was in front of him. She started to sing Oh what a beautiful morning, she turned around and looked at him and smiled playfully… It hurt Jackson to think of what came next, he wished that she had finished the song and walked on, but that wasn't what happened and he couldn't lie to himself…

 "I've got a beautiful feeling, everything going my-"  a truck slammed into her soft body and ripped his hands from hers, she flew under the tyres with not even a scream, all he could hear was the roaring of the engine and the crunch of his mothers bones. Each wheel was worse than the previous, always more snapping and blood. The last tyre made almost no noise, every bone was broken, there was just a low thud as the last wheel rolled over her gentle face. The truck drove away as Jackson read the registration plate of the devil car, J2I 7OBH. He couldn't move, he just saw a shadow of his mother singing and the truck drove through her as if she was nothing. He was confused, he wasn't dreaming, it was a shadow, he could see it, hear it and feel its presence.

The next thing he did was run to his mothers corpse, and hold it. The blood stained his clothes and scarred his mind. He caressed her smashed face and broken bones. He couldn't get her singing out of his mind, but he stayed silent, just stroking her face, wiping the blood from her forehead, before he kissed it. He hugged her and swayed side to side, singing Amazing Grace, her favourite song, that she would sing to him to help him sleep. He didn't speak, he couldn't. 

After ten minutes, a woman walked by, and screamed when she saw the scene, she ran to him and called the ambulance, she asked Jackson if he was hurt, he didn't reply, he just kept singing, and when she asked him to put his mother down, he ignored her and just held her tighter, nothing could make him let go. He just smiled and sung, even when the paramedics tried to tell him to get off, he kept smiling and singing, they had to pull him off her with all their strength, and when they did finally get him off, he cried hysterically, and begged to hug her again, but they couldn't let him. They never found the driver and didn't trust a five year olds memory of a registration plate number.

The weather was the same as the day his mother died, all he could hear was screams of murder, his mothers crunching bones and her voice singing as the sun shone down on him and he sung to himself, Oh what a beautiful morning.

The early sun glowed over his young face, it was morning, he must have fallen asleep yesterday, he thought. The birds cried in the trees, weeping in sorrow. He watched little children follow old men into bushes, one or two screams and then black smoke pour out as they melted. Women getting stabbed in robberies, and one of the most horrifying was one little girl in a black plastic bag, the murderer must have thought she was dead, then she breathed, and the murderer heard her, and threw the bag onto the ground and stamped on it until the screams stopped, and there was just deafening silence.

Jackson wondered when he would see his own death, he wondered what would happen when he did, if he would die, if everyone would die, or if he could escape death forever. Maybe he couldn't die, that would be a horrible curse. 

He decided, since the first time after his mother died, that he would go back to that street, to watch it happen again, to feel it. To feel something.

He paced slowly and regretfully down the streets, fixated on the ground, he was thinking about what he would feel when he saw it again, sadness? He didn't have normal emotions and he couldn't predict anything he did or felt. He was corrupted to the bone. Destroyed.

Full of relief, Jackson stopped when he reached the beginning of 'that' street, he mused whether it was safe to go down there, but decided, that if the best thing in life was death, what was there to be scared of? And he did truly believe that death was the best thing in life, a perfect escape, a permanent escape, no-one could tell you off, not that he cared of being told off or looked down on, there was no feeling, as people say, grey skies bring fair days tomorrow, but he didn't think it was meant to be interpreted in that way…

He kicked his feet into drive and almost ran down the street, with his face staring down at the pavement. Then he got to the crossing, and slowly lifted his head up, his neck seemed to creek like a rusty hinge, his eyes reluctantly looked to the road. 

At the beginning, he saw nothing, then, slowly, the figure of a woman in her early thirties looked up at him and began to sing. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard. It compelled him, not caring of who could hear him, he shouted out everything that had happened, the ghosts, the deaths, how he missed her, his sister, that he loved her so much and missed her, as if she would reply to him, but she kept singing and smiling with her hand out, he grabbed it and tried to pull her out of the road, he felt her hand, he could touch her, but he couldn't move her, she was set in stone. 

He couldn't blink, and when he heard 'that' line, he started to scream and pulled her hand so hard, her face seemed to react in pain, but he knew it was just an illusion. 

"I've got a beautiful feeling, everything going my-" He stood just as transfixed as when it had happened six years ago, he was glued to the ground, a statue. For the first time in years, a tear came to his eye, and he was upset. Maybe he did have feelings, but he doubted he did. It was torture watching the last wheel cripple his mothers beautiful, blonde, pale face. Blood poured out of every pore on her body, bathing herself in her own blood.

 

His legs seemed to run to her body without him having to make them, just like the first time. He couldn't let go of her shadow, he clung onto it as if it was the life ring and he had fallen to sea, but in a sense, she was his life ring, and he had fallen into the bottomless sea of truth and he was never going to get out. He held her tighter when she started to fade, he needed her, she had to stay, she couldn't go, but none the less, she did, and her son just lay on the ground, alone, empty, dead.

Jackson couldn't move, but he didn't regret going there, he had seen what he had to, and he decided, that every day of his life, he would go and see her. She was everything to him, even though he could barely remember her. He loved her, she was his mother, Jane Parker.

Mrs. Sarah Howard. The reason his mother was dead. The reason he would die, and he knew it. Mrs. Sarah Howard was death, Mrs. Sarah Howard was the end of his life.

He lay there, his eyes were closed, and he had a faint smile on his face. The cold gush of wind was the most beautiful thing he had ever felt, it cooled his mind, put out the angry fires, froze the painful thoughts in their tracks and calmed his heart. His smile spread into a grin. He was imagining that it was his death, rather than his mothers. That he had been crippled, that he had bled for her. Then all of this would have never existed. 

Sleep was trying to conquer his eyes, and they were winning. He wanted to sleep there, he wanted to get run over, for his life to end, but he knew that wouldn't happen, as he hadn't seen himself die here, so he knew it was just a waste of time, when he could be at home, in a comfy bed sleeping. Slowly he pulled his legs to his chest and got up. 

Quickly he turned his back so he wouldn't see his mother, and started to walk home, listening to the sound of death whirling in his ears.

Black blood pooled at his feet wherever he went, sometimes it got so much that he tried to wipe it off, and just felt a sticky goo before it evaporated. This road had a lot of black blood, it was a popular road for death. If he had a sense of humour, he would have laughed that it was "popular to die on", but he didn't, so he just got annoyed at himself for making a bad joke. It was unusual for him to make a joke, and he had previously a small sliver of hope he would be funny, because, inside, he did want friends, friends he could tell everything, mature friends who understood, that knew what he was going through, whether they saw the dead like he did or not. But he knew no-one would be his friend, or understand, or be mature. Because he was eleven, and his friends acted five.

The thin roads winded around his feet, he imagined it strangling him, stopping his breath, his face would turn red, then white, then blue and finally purple, before his died. He had seen it enough to know for himself what being strangled was like. He also knew what it felt like, as sometimes, he could connect with a victim, and be them, to feel their pain, to read their thoughts and feel death for a quarter of a second, before he went back to his normal self. It was rare for this to happen, but it was magical when it happened. Sometimes he would go back again, to feel it again, but he never felt it from the same person twice.

After a long, thought-filled walk home, he finally got to his house. It had a small front garden filled with red and white roses that winded over thin poles in the soil, the house was eyry, it was very victorian, with dark bricks and a black, lead roof, a big, black door with an old door bell and a small goblin looking down at you from the porch roof. Jackson pulled out his keys and twisted them into the rusty door. The magnificent doors swung open silently- Julie would have hated it to squeak, so she oiled it regularly- and he looked up at the grand staircase, with golden poles on every step and a red carpet over the marble base. The reception of the house had a chequered tiled floor which froze your bare feet and long corridors lead to other huge rooms. The house was like a mansion and was very expensive. 

In the past he had the choice of a big room, but he had always wanted the attic. His room- as some people called the cupboard- was tiny! It could only fit one small bunk bed and a mini closet. You could lie down and touch both ends of the room with ease. Every day he was asked if he wanted a bigger room, but he always refused. He had almost no possessions. He only had a bed, a cupboard, a laptop, a few clothes, a notebook, a phone, an ipod, some keys, and a picture of him and his mother. He didn't want anything else, he found no point in having lots of clothes or gadgets, as what were they except some piece of material some little kid in Africa had to slave over? 

"Hi Jackson! Just wondering where you were last night…You could have got killed, not that I care." Shouted Emma, while trying to get in, but he had locked the room. He smiled at her incompetence, it was fun watching her get annoyed at something so simple as a lock. He waited for her to go before he went down stairs to get some lunch as he was starving.

The soup was heavenly, it soothed his sore throat and kept him warm. He liked to just drink soup and water and eat just bread, it was simple, easy to make, and filled him easily. In some ways, he wasn't hard to please. But as he soon found, he was bored of soup and went back upstairs.

Jackson lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking. He thought of a fairy-tale land where he was never judged and always smiled. He imagined the girl of his dreams,  a tall brunette, in a big, flowing fairy dress which covered her feet. Her hair was in long plaits, and she wore lots of pink make-up. Her laugh was like a wind chime, and her smile was like pearls glistening in the afternoon sun. 

Suddenly he saw what a princess would really look like, an untainted one, one that had never had a false image put on. This girl was quite different. Her teeth were brown and rotting, her lips were cracked, her hair was greasy, she was covered in spots, she had barely any fat and looked as if she could be broken in two. But she did have the most beautiful eyes ever seen. They glowed with natural excitement, it was the kind of light that could show the way through dark tunnels, or help a plant to grow. Her innocent eyes seemed to laugh in happiness. Even though she was un-groomed and dirty, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The other princess seem hideous next to her.

He imagined the natural girls laugh, he almost smiled when he heard it. It lightened his world, and for a fraction of a second, he was happy. Then he saw from behind her, a homeless man, with a knife. The man edged towards her, and they fought. She was very strong, but no match for a weapon. He watched perfection fade away into the air, and at that moment he knew, the human race, unbelievable, amazing, perfect and natural human race, would die out, from itself. That it was its own killer, that it was the death of itself. 

Jackson looked into space, and a tear rolled down his check in pity for the future.

That night Jackson didn't sleep, he just lay awake, alone in the dark. He often did that, the darkness would swallow him, he wouldn't breathe until he had to, and when he did it was very peaceful. His pupils filled up with his soul, his face turned white as his lips turned red. He went all cold and his body went soft, if anyone had looked at him, they would've thought he was dead.  

In these times, he would think about the world, about the contradicting,  dead minded adults. Only a child, with the pureness of youth could really see behind strange actions, feel what adults felt and to understand what the consequences of certain choices were.  He would ponder over the mysteries of time and space, but most of all, he would feel death. It flooded through him and filled every crack of his body up with meaningless darkness. Coldness would sweep over his fragile being and his mind would go blank. And last, his lips would turn ever so slightly into a smile as his soul collapsed and his mind shattered in the empty silence of death.

Chapter 2

"Burn me. Burn me. Burn me…" Chanted Jackson as he woke up. He would often wake up speaking, but recently, the words were getting more and more suicidal, like "Give me your blood, let me feel your screams, let me live inside of you as your life ends, feed me your pain. I am death. I am life. I am you." 

Once again, the blankets were wrapped around his body like a boa constrictor, this happened whenever he was very stressed and he tossed and turned at night. He did this most nights now, as his mind was maturing, and he knew something big would happen any day, but he didn't know when, or what it was. A part of his mind was excited that it would be "fed". 

Anger suddenly shot through him like an electric shock, he grabbed his stress reliever and pumped his anger into the pigs innocent  face, he bit its head and ripped its nose off. He kept biting and squeezing it, but the anger did not fade, it stayed in his body and mind, which he did not expect. It didn't go, and he gained no control over it, he just got more and more frustrated that the anger wasn't going. His fingers started to ache as they couldn't get all his madness out, which in turn, made him more angry than in the first place, it was a vicious circle.

He tried deep breathing, but it had no affect, it just made him angrier and made him hit the wall and scream into the pillow that he had thrusted his face into.

The anger wasn't rational,  he had no meaning for it, but he knew that he was going to school that day.  

His eyes rolled back into his head, and he got up from his bed. Anger still pulsed through him and his angelic face turned red with pent-up rage. He pulled his grey school uniform on, the rough fabric scraped his skin, and he felt a bit better to be in physical pain rather than mental pain, it took his mind off the anger, for half a second…

But only a few seconds later, did he whack his fragile scull into the cold, hard, metal bed post and pull his hair with all his might. Small strands tore out and his head started to bleed. It pulsed through him and made him dizzy, the world started to spin and turn red. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. His mind repeated over and over again, like a time bomb, waiting to massacre.

In a heap on the flood, he bled out in pleasure, feeling the raw cut and burning heat as the cold blood cooled it. His eyes closed and he felt free, he felt empty and a part of the earth. He felt his heart beat, and for once, he was comforted by the sound. The earth shuddered under his fragile body, as if it could feel his pain and happiness.

Time, it seemed to never end,  but Jackson knew that time was set, he could feel the world come into play. He imagined that  Shakespeare had written it long ago with his Tudor feather pen and ink, that it was perfectly planned to show the best lives possible. And the worse.

The fact time would run out was a pleasing thought to Jackson, he felt that it was closed off, and there was a limit to his pain and suffering, that one day, it would end.

He felt as if the time to lie down had ended, and that he must get up for school, so he did. He lifted up his thin legs, held the blood-stained bed post and pulled himself up. 

Pale stairs seemed to flow beneath him as he glided downstairs and outside. He took a deep breath and grinned as he heard the first scream of the day. The scream came from a small little boy getting destroyed by a big black car, it crunched over his young bones and snapped them in two, blood streamed out of his eyes, mouth and ears like a red fountain, spewing the thick liquid; Jacksons eyes glowed at the sight and his body flexed, ready for the day. 

One of the strange things about his gift was, all the screams, crunches and snaps didn't drown out any natural sound, he heard each death individually at the same time, and along with all the normal noises of the street. It was strangely peaceful.

Each step was wading through blood, each arm sway was knocking over an infant and every smile was a killers loss of control after the dark deed was done. He was in heaven. Death, destruction and murder, just by walking along a street. Harmony had come.

After countless moans and never ending deaths, Jackson reached school. He was an hour early, and decided to wonder and watch future deaths of his classmates. 

He pushed the metal gates aside and strutted into the sixties building. The walls inside had been painted a cream, but the paint was uneven, and gave a texture like   chicken skin. Or boiled human. It was a rare case, but it did pop up ever so often, as if it was just reminding him of the brute hatred and anger of the species that like to call themselves a humane society. But as every person should know, it is just a dream, and humans do know their own mind, and where they are really categorised.

The tiled floors echoed around the corridors, he didn't know why, but the sound haunted him. The silence which made noise. A repetitive sound. The sound of eternity. 

There wasn't much death in the school, just a few children getting pulled into closets, little accidents which cause a very big affects and waves of carbon monoxide floating in deadly tides, pulling in the bodies, and pushing out the dead.

Another strange feature of his gift was, the death didn't echo, the screams never repeated themselves. As if they were preserving their individuality. Although the death never echoed, he could see them more than once in a lifetime. 

Death swallowed a little boy all dressed in uniform. The grey cardigan clung to the child's weak body, black shorts went down to his knees and he wore big, white socks under his oversized shoes. A delicate grey and yellow cap rested on his head, it stayed very still, and then fell with the rest of his body after the scissors were pulled out of his innocent, blue eyes. Blood seeped onto the floor, but only half an hour later, the hall was empty and smelt of bleach. His life was gone and his shadow disintegrated.

Through the black clouds appeared a girl, Jackson's age, with long, dull, blonde hair, green eyes that could penetrate a black box, and the figure of an average girl. She was a golden shadow, and still alive. She was not his princess, she was his angel, even though he didn't believe in stupid crowd control that is otherwise known as religion. 

He was connected to the girl while they stared into each others souls. But she was just a shadow, a golden shadow, a live shadow. Could she see him? Was this experience real? Jackson had never felt like this before. There was a wormhole between them maybe, an invisible tunnel which is believed to connect two opposite forms. Black holes and white holes. Physics came into play as it always did, Jackson could never escape time and space.

As if she was his mother, he smiled and ran to her, he reached out to her, and she reached back. Just as their hands touched and he felt the undying warmth of her unexplainable love, she disappeared instantly. It was like she had never walked the face of the earth. 

Emptiness filled Jacksons soul, as he knew that the one being he had every truly connected with, had gone as abruptly as his mother had. Without a single warning. Just gone. He felt hollow, and for once in his life, he couldn't hear his heart beat. His body had stopped, he stood still, alone in the dark. But not scared, he was never scared. He was Jackson Parker. Alone, but not scared.

Motionless, Jackson watched the boy's death again. His eyes seemed to run into the murderers eyes, the eyes of his teacher in two years. He felt Miss Smith's joy as she plunged the school scissors into his eyes, he felt her overwhelming happiness, her madness, her anger disintegrating. But most of all, he felt the little boy's fear. He could smell it, it flowed through the air like a stream, certain but weak. The boy's eyes swarmed with adrenaline, but as he was about to fight back, it was too late, and his eyes would never be seen again. He would be one of those boys that always a mystery and never found.

Jackson ripped his eyes from the murder and ran down the corridor, he couldn't feel any part of him since she disappeared. It was like she had stolen his mind, his brilliant mind. She had robbed him, and yet he wasn't angry, he just needed her irrational love. When he thought of her face, he glowed, he felt like he was like her, and that he was golden. An angel to her physical self maybe. It was just her mental soul with him, maybe she saw Jackson as an angel the same way he had seen her. Maybe she could see deaths too! What if after all these years, he had found someone with the same curse as him? 

His mind moved faster than his body ever could, he had only traveled two meters, and yet what he had thought should have taken a normal human a few minutes to think up. But he wasn't exactly a normal human though.

He walked into the classroom and saw the evil eyes of Miss Smith, they dug into his soul as his had done to her, what had seemed to happen hours ago. 

"Hello Jackson. You decided to come to school today?" She taunted.

"Piss off!" He shouted back, he couldn't believe she would kill an innocent boy, who… looked strangely like her…

Jackson screamed in rage, how could he have not noticed before? It was her son she was killing! Her son was five years old at the time, and soon he would die a painful death of homicide by his own mother.

Murder crept into his mind, if he could just get her after school, he could save the small boy… 

"Jackson, do I have to remind you again?" She spoke in a friendly, childish voice. "Don't swear in class!" she screamed. He could just see her pull out some scissors, and sink them into his own eyes. But he didn't want to die, not when he had seen her. He couldn't, and that thought scared him.

"Murderer!" He accused in a voice so loud, Mrs. Howard got up and started to make her way to the classroom to see what was happening. Miss Smith looked at him and smiled, her eyebrows sank and her teeth flashed. "I know." She whispered playfully, before she acted usual to Mrs. Howard and said how I was just having a bad day, and that there was nothing to worry about.

For a fraction of a second, outside of the window he saw, a golden figure kneeling next to a bush, watching the commotion, her burning eyes looked on him with concern before she disappeared again. He looked back at Miss Smith and she seemed to be a black, snaky, creature with glowing red eyes and hands like talons of an eagle. She had a black beak with gleaming white teeth. Miss Smith was the figure of death. And then she was normal again. Her concerned eyes were a warning to him.  She had saved his life.

Jackson looked at Miss Smith with fearful eyes. What was she?! She wasn't human! She couldn't be! Just a second before she was a snake-like creature! But what if she was human? What if all murderers were like that when no-one saw them? But why could he see them then? And how had he not seen them before?

In a drunken fashion, he stumbled out of the room, and then started a sprint to get out of the school, on the way, he pulled the fire alarm and screamed "Run!" At the top of his voice. He shot through the echoing, tiled corridors like a bullet through thin, weak flesh. A common death.

After he got outside the school gates, he kept running and ran all the way to the center of the city. He took note of every death and scanned the faces of passers by for a murderer, to see if his theory was true. 

After half an hour of running, he reached the spot. The spot was a place he had always been drawn to, and never known why. It was like a weak magnet, you could escape it, but it was always there, pulling you ever so slightly in.

But today was different, it was more than a weak attraction, it was a heavy rip, that he just had to be there. But when he sat on the bench under the towering buildings, nothing happened. He just felt ever so slightly pulled up, as if his head was on a string and it was pulling up, but it was very weak, and when he looked up into the sky, he just saw a thin, grey shadow on the building, and suddenly felt more empty than the first time she had left him. A baby's touch could collapse his fragile state, even though it was just a mental feeling, it was creeping its way into a physical feeling and after a minute, he was completely immobile. 

He just stared up at the grey shadow and squinted his eyes in a feeble attempt to see what was up there, just out of sight, if only he was a little closer… A tiny spark of gold, then the grey swallowed it. His whole body jumped in fright at what he had seen, the message was clear, but he wasn't certain. But what he was certain of, was that he was being watched by the snakes, he could feel in his empty, frightened state, a sickening silence, which really shouldn't be there in the middle of London. 

He kicked up his feet and speed walked home, his mind in a state of angry paranoia.

One week had passed, slowly. Every day was just death, crying, screaming, and self harming. 

A new bad problem had developed, he couldn't look into his own eyes. If he saw his reflection, he would look away immediately, he couldn't bear the empty, hollow, dead eyes that stared back at him with the most horrible fascination and madness, like a fire slowly burning, it would soon bite him. It would crawl over his mind and destroy the last thread of humanity that was left in his fragile brain.

In the week, he hadn't done much, just watched his mother, looked for her, ran from the snakes and slowly peel the skin from his arms, centimetre by centimetre, until from his shoulder to his elbow was plain flesh, a bright red with a big scab, it crunched when he moved, a sickening snap. He didn't go to school, so no-one noticed it.

The tide pushed the flow of the river in and out. Jackson sat watching, dangling under a bridge, he had climbed under at night and sat on a ledge seeing countless people die as the day and night went on. I was much too far out all my life, and not waving, but drowning, always streamed through his mind. It was a quote by the poet Stevie Smith. He loved that quote, it was calm, but fierce at the same time, it showed individuality, but a sense of family aswell.  

His hands burned from self harm cuts, they were starting to get infected by the rusty barbed wire that he used to pierce his thin skin.

He hadn't seen her in a while, she seemed to only appear when he really needed her, like she was an angel, his angel. 

Blood poured through his veins, he could feel it, a constant rushing of liquid, he could hear it, it annoyed him so much, it pulsed through him, he would slice open his wrist just to feel it flow out of him and for the noise to stop. He was a sick boy, but he knew he would prefer to see the world as it really was, rather than be ignorant to the facts of life.

Author's Note

Please ignore all spelling and grammar mistakes, I will correct these mistakes when I'm finished.

(By the way, the picture I chose for it, was actually drawn for me, it was never finished because the artist started a new picture for me, but the new one isn't finished yet.)

Reviews

[Ross]

Yes, this is very interesting. You have a wonderful way of describing human nature and with some grammatical corrections, this is an amazing beginning for a new writer. I don't read much poetry, but yours is also very compelling. Good luck.

[Angelauthor1204]

I love the story. What happens next? Keep up the great work...you're bound to be well-known some day! X)

[LipglossKiller]

This is incredible. Very compelling. I normally read longer stories in bits and pieces, but this was so interesting that I had to read it all right now. This is a great story and it feels real. You painted a great picture of Jackson and his life. I feel like I know him.
I especially loved the paragraph.. "His legs seemed to run to her body...and her son just lay on the ground, alone, empty, dead." It is heart wrenching!

[Aynsley]

Hello,

This is a very well written story. It is very long and just very talented. You are an amazing writer for your age. I'm thirteen, and I'm not even this good.

Keep up the good work. And happy writing. (:

[Lightfalls]

This is really good. It makes me desperately want to know what happens to him, and that mysterious girl with the piercing green eyes, so intriguing, you are a very good writer...seriously.

[Wolfwind Words]

This was amazingly gripping, well written and full of images that jump out at you. The idea behind the story's main character is bold and original. I very much enjoyed reading the first portions of your work and am eager to see where the story turns from here.

A+ craftsmanship here!

Wolfie

[Ross]

thanks....will read in the morning but it is interesting!!!