August

August is a troubled adolescent. At home, his drunken stepfather makes his life hell, and at college he suffers at the hands of bullies. But August has never been one to break the law...until now. With a new taste for violence and a desire for vengeance, he begins to stalk 3 young women in a complicated and twisted search for power. [Rated 'Y' due to potentially disturbing/graphic content and frequent swearing]

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3. Chapter 3: Making A Break

​I leave Cole's unconscious body outside and trudge back into the hallway. My head is buzzing with muddled thoughts and voices.

That felt good, didn't it?

I've never felt so empowered. Did you see the fear in his eyes?

​Just think what damage you could do to your enemies, not just him!

Enemies? People at college?

​Yeah, those dickheads and Barbie dolls. Show them what you're capable of.

They'd never bully me again. I'd be free to live my life.

​If you didn't get caught.

"August, where's Cole?" My mother's voice banishes the noise in my head, and I glare at her. I dismiss the question.

"Where is he? August please talk to me." I can hear the fear in her voice, and I wonder why she's so scared. Surely she doesn't care about him? Surely she'd be glad to see him injured? I sigh.

"He's outside. Go and see." I say calmly, feeling strangely calmed by the whole situation. My mother nods, her face contorted with anxiety. As she leaves the house, I quietly lock the back door behind her. My mind is racing with images of inflicting pain and suffering upon my bullies, and their names flash before my eyes as I feverishly plan what my next steps should be. I smile briefly as I wonder if the bottle's impact has damaged my brain; I'd never thought such terrible things before, and all of a sudden they didn't seem so terrible but appeared to me like the best ideas in the world.

For a while, I'd wanted to tell my psychiatrist about the voice in my head, but I already knew what he'd say; "Let's put you on medication" or "You might have psychosis". And so, since the voice started years ago, it has remained a secret. The only reason I still see the mental health team is because of my OCD and anger issues. I suspect they've guessed the reason for my bruises too, but I never answer the questions about these.

I pause for a moment and realise that I'm truly glad to have the voice, because without it's encouraging words, I may not have had the guts to attack Cole and instead I would be the one lying unconscious on the grass.

​Knives. Get a knife.

​I head towards the knife block, searching for the most dangerous weapon. I pick out a kitchen knife with a 20cm glinting blade and solid wooden handle. I slip it into the leg of my trousers, securing it with my belt. Pocketing a small steak knife for luck, I run for the stairs. By now, most of my drunkenness had worn off, leaving me with a pounding headache but a fully-functioning brain. I take the stairs two at a time, and I know that if I don't speed up, my mother would be pleading at the door for me to let her in.

​I burst through my bedroom door and turn on the light. ​Grab a bag, any bag! ​I quickly empty my rucksack of my books and papers, and begin stuffing it with an old hoodie, a spare set of clothes and a £20 note I had stolen from Cole's wallet last week while he was passed out drunk. I hurry back downstairs and into the kitchen, adding a box of cereal bars and a 6-pack of beer to my rucksack. All the essentials, right?

As expected, I hear my mother's muffled cries at the back door, but I ignore her. She would call for an ambulance or the police if she could reach the phone, and I'm already in too deep to take pity on her now. I'm sure she could find the spare key that Cole had hidden in the garden if she's that desperate to get in, but I know in my heart that she would rather stay with Cole until he came round, although I can't think for the life of me why. She should take her chance and run, like I'm doing.

I ignore her shouts and prepare to leave via the front door. I grab the key, sling the rucksack over my shoulders, and make a break for it, slipping out into the night.

Time for vengeance.

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