Seeing Red

Paul is angrier than he's ever been: angry at his surroundings for having changed; angry at his family for being uncaring and abusive and angry at himself for deeper reasons. He is trapped, his life spiraling out of his own control and into the hands of others.

Then he finds the knife. The knife that allows you to kill once, twice, three times and more. Suddenly, he's got the power to change everything in his life, to unleash his anger on those deserving of it in a safe way that hurts no-one. After all, can something be said to have happened if no-one remembers it?

Paul's about to find out that every action has consequences. But before then, blood will flow...

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1. Chapter One

AN: This novel is still in progress and should be treated strictly as a first draft only. Nothing you see or read here will necessarily remain at the end of the extensive editing process that it's likely to go through, and seeing as the first draft is still to be completed, I cannot even give you an idea of exactly what will be removed. Suggestions are, however, appreciated in any shape or form. All comments shall be treated equally. Let it be known that I am a Brit, so any suggestions from Americans telling me that my way of spelling certain words is wrong will be largely ignored unless I actually see that they have a point. Heheh.

And another thing: This novel is my attempt at August's Camp NaNoWriMo 2012, and was as such started upon 04/08/2012.

Onto the novel, then. I'll not ask for your subscription or fandom or anything, but it would be appreciated. Just bear in mind that I write for myself, not for others. Cheers, folks, and enjoy the read... If possible. Muhahahahahaha...

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Anger. Intense anger. All I feel is hate, saturating every fibre of my being. Hate for this place. Hate for my family.

                Hate for myself.

                The door slams shut behind me – a heavy bang that I feel as a thump in my chest. The action doesn’t serve to release the pent-up rage as it should. Instead, it does the opposite, fuelling the fire that burns in my mind. That wasn’t the sound of my door slamming. In fact, that wasn’t my door. More than anything right now, I want to slam my door, to hear the specific crash of wood on wood that I know to be my door. But I know deep down that I’ll never hear that sound again. It isn’t my door. This isn’t my house. This isn’t my home.

                Not my home.

                I stuff my hands deep into my pockets and make my way across the lawn, hot tears welling up in my eyes. I hate myself for being weak as my throat constricts. I twist around to glare back at the ridiculous building that now belongs to my family.

Cromwell Hall is an enormous construction of brick and mortar; a gothic building of biblical proportions sat at the centre of a sea of green. Some might see it as a baroque marvel of architectural ingenuity. I think it’s a giant waste of materials, as useless as a shredder with eggshell teeth. No-one needs a house that size. In fact, house is the wrong word. The word ‘manor’ suits it better. After all, that’s what it really is.

                The gravel driveway meanders lazily across the estate, parting it like a wedge. It’s populated with large delivery vans. Men in baseball caps and overalls shift cardboard cubes by hand or with the aid of dollies, which seem to be having a hard time on the rough surface. In truth, I should be back there, helping out. But why should I help? I’m not going to aid the fools who brought me here, those who tore me from my home.

                We had everything we needed back in England – a nice, cosy house, food and running water, central heating and air conditioning. I had a good school and good friends to match it. The town was friendly and suited my needs: there was the shopping mall, the leisure centre, the arcade, the park… And what did we exchange it for? An estate that we can never hope to maintain and a building with twelve miles of corridors squashed inside its musty interior. The driveway, rather than being a few metres in length, is over a mile long. Who needs such things!? Not us, I’m sure. But here we are, far from home, being hopelessly optimistic in thinking that we can even pay the electricity bill. That’s assuming that the place has electricity. The way my week’s going, I wouldn’t be surprised if we have to wash our clothes in the local river.

                I pull my jacket closer. It’s freezing outside. My breath shows as a white cloud before me when I exhale. We would never get this in England. Why, of all places to go, did we have to go to Scotland?

                I curse the land. The cold, hard ground gives me no sympathy. The crunch of the frosted grass mocks me. And the anger returns, more potent than ever.

                A dark line of trees looms up before me, and I realise that I’ve gone as far as I can go this day. Night is falling – I check my watch; it’s only five o’clock – and I’d rather not have to anger my father more than is strictly necessary. With a spark of surprise, I notice that the mere thought of him has caused me to unconsciously clench my fist. Yes, that reaction seems to be an accurate expression of my feelings towards him.

                The start of the forest is now but feet away – I can go no further, unless I wish to run the risk of getting lost in a Scottish forest in the dark. My day’s been bad enough; I don’t need to end it by freezing to death. I remove my frozen fingers from my pockets and blow on them. Yes, time to go back now.

                With no little displeasure, I turn around and start walking slowly back towards the manor. I don’t want to go back, but there’s really no alternative. And, what’s more, I would loathe to be letting anyone entertain thoughts of my frozen teenage body being found by some Scots farmer. No, that wouldn’t do at all. I can’t allow them that pleasure.

                I bare my teeth and narrow my eyes. On I walk, back across the lawn; back towards the house.

                On I walk in the knowledge that within the scabby walls of Cromwell Hall waits my family.

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