I remember being alive sometimes, bits of it break through into my mind, or at least I think so… sometimes my mind melds together and it gets so hard to tell just what’s real and what isn't.

But at times I have dreams, in those dreams I can always recall everything that happened that day. The day I died. It’s when I wake up that bits of it break off and I have trouble remembering… but the dreams are always the same.

I’m back at home in Juneau, Alaska—it’s cold and I’m standing outside of the school, I beat up Jerry Ferguson and sent him to the hospital. The principle called my father.

I remember how scared I was, how I felt the anxiety pooling into the pit of my stomach as I waited for my father.

I knew what would happen.

He would be pissed and it would be my fault. Everything always seemed to be my fault with him. Or so he said. He always said that as he beat me, whether he was drunk or sober it never mattered, it was always my fault.

I remember how angry that made me, how much I hated and despised him for that.

And then he drove up and honked at me to come to the car. It always seemed like that was how I had lived my entire life, he called for me and I went to him and every time he beat me and hated me for something that I had no control over.

It wasn't my fault my mother had died in childbirth but to him it was it was always my fault because he couldn't let it go and forgive me.

I hated him for that too.

And as we drove home, I looked at the window refusing to look at him—just like he refused to look at me.

But then he wasn't.

“You disgust me; you beat a boy and put him in the hospital and for what? Why? Why would you do that? What could he have possibly done that was worse then what you've done?”

I had always hated the way he said my name or just addressed me; like I was beneath him.

“And what have I done?! I've done nothing! You blame me for something that I couldn't control; you hate me for even being born. You’re angry that for me to be alive she had to die, and you will never let me forget that. Do you think that hurting me will bring her back? That by slowly killing me she’ll come back? Because she won’t, she’s dead and she’s never coming back!” I yelled out at him, my hands clenched in my lap as my nails cut into my skin. I ignored the pain and instead envisioned cutting into him, clawing and scratching at him for everything he had done.

He didn't look at me. He just went back to looking at the road as he drove, shock and anger written across his face at my outburst. How odd it was that I had never fought back until now.

When we reached the house he shut off the car and strode into the house. I stepped outside of the car and stayed there, waiting in the cold as the wind and snow circled me—not sure what to do.

It was like I had lived my whole life in fear of my father, never fighting back because I had learned so long ago that fighting back was useless, and now that I had spoken up for myself it was almost like time had stopped. And now I had no idea how to act now that I had spoken up for myself.

I suppose that I had to start somewhere and so I walked back into the house and ignored my father, ignored him calling for me. Perhaps that was why he was even angrier at me as he yanked me by my backpack; slamming me into the floor as he pummeled me, screaming out curse words and other words that meant nothing to me, but everything to him.

“You’re a disgusting human being, a killer, a bully, you do nothing but ruin people’s lives and you regret none of it,” he whispered into my ear as I lay on the ground, bleeding and hurt before he walked off to fix his own wounds. And that was how it always went. He hit and abused me and then went to take care of himself, because in his mind I wasn't worth fixing.

I stood up, wincing and clutched my side, feeling what would no doubt be a new bruise to add to my vast collection of bruises before walking—or to be more exact stumbling—into my room, and stared at the mess that surrounded me.

Clothes littered the floor and my bed was unmade, my lamp was still broken from when my father beat me with it for something that I couldn't even remember even more. Papers were balled up, and they littered the floor beside dirty plates and cups, and I looked around wondering, "Was this really my life?"

For sixteen years I put up with beatings and lived in filth, wishing I was never born and having to apologize for even being born, and for what? There wasn't anything worthwhile for me to put up with this bullshit.

Filling with anger I looked around and stared at myself in the mirror that hung on top of my dresser. I looked like complete shit. My black hair was too long and needed to be cut; I was too tall too at 6’4 and right now my face was covered in blood and bruises, I had a split lip and those were the only things you could see. Underneath my long jacket and pants I had bruises and cuts that littered my body. Speaking of which, I noticed that several cuts had reopened. Scowling, I began to look for anything to take my anger out on.

Snarling, I picked up the lamp and began to bash the mirror before throwing it at the window, ignoring the sound of the window breaking. Instead, grabbing the bed and throwing it onto the floor as I heard the plates and cups break and crumple underneath it.

I walked over to the bed kicking and stomping the mattress, bending down to pick up my pillow and swung it at my dresser knocking down the clutter that adorned it, hearing something fall onto the ground and breaking.

Almost shaking with frustration I walked over to pick up whatever had fallen and I paused, feeling my anger drain out of my body as I stared at the broken frame that had a photo of my mother in it.

Turning the frame over in my hands I opened it, taking out the photo and looking at it. It was probably the only thing my father had given me. But he hadn't meant to make me happy; he had wanted me to see just who I had killed when I was born. “I want you to look at the beautiful woman you killed, look at her and realize that you are nothing compared to her. You disgust me and always will.” I recalled what he said to me as he handed the frame to me, tears in his eyes and anger written across his face.

But that was never what happened when I saw her face, she looked so happy in the picture it made me wonder how she could be. How could anyone have been happy with my father?

Slipping the photo into my pocket I ignored the fact that I had started to cry as I looked at her photo and wished that she hadn't died. Instead, I looked outside the window and noticed the sun setting. I hadn't quite realized time pass as I destroyed my room, taking my anger out on my belongings before looking at her photo.

Smiling to myself and wiping away my tears, thinking that maybe things would get better I turned around and leaned down to pick up my bed. I tried to clean up some of the mess that I had made—ignoring the loud footsteps I could hear approaching me… it seemed that you could only ignore something for so long though. Which I learned as I felt him yank me up by my hair and pull me after him, out to the front yard.

Throwing me onto the ground I bit my lip, ignoring the pain I felt in my stomach from my last beating not too long ago.

Leaning down on one knee he bent down to face me and held up a knife next to my face, and I tensed up and began to squirm, before reminding myself not to move too much or he might actually cut my face.

Feeling the beginning of a panic attack, I could also feel my heart beginning to speed up as my breathing became uneven and came out in short pants.

“You killed my wife, your own mother, and you have done nothing to rectify that. You've made my life miserable and have taken everything I loved that brought me joy away,” he whispered to me, bringing the knife closer to my eye. “It’s time I got that happiness back, an eye for an eye after all.”

I didn’t realize what would happen next even though I should have. It was like the moment had slowed down as I saw my father lower the knife to my left eye, and then I closed my eyes in fear. Before I felt the knife piercing through my eyelid and into my eye, carving it out of my socket. And then all I could feel was the piercing pain from where my eyelid and eye used to be as I felt; the hot blood begin to fall onto my face, and the sharp short jabs of the knife entering my body and leaving.

Panting and trying to push my father off I ignored the pain that coursed through my body, feeling weaker and weaker by the second—and I couldn’t help but laugh—as I felt all of the anger and hatred that I harbored for this man replace my strength. As I saw him stand up and then felt him kicking me closer to the edge of the cliff that we had always lived on.

As I felt myself falling over the edge of the cliff I continued to laugh, the air and snow circling me as I felt the rush and thrill of falling. Except this time the thrill was replaced with anger and my want for revenge. As I felt myself falling through the sky… shutting my remaining eye I envisioned doing everything he had ever done to me and smiled to myself, enjoying the thought of being able to cause him just as much pain as he had caused me.

When I opened my eye I found myself no longer in pain and frozen in the air, just lying there—before seeing someone in front of me.

“Who are you?” I found myself asking the man, frowning, not sure how any of this was possible.

“Well I’m usually referred to as the Devil or Satan but I prefer Lucifer seeing as how it’s my God given name,” the man said twirling in the air, “It’s very nice to meet you Tristan, I was so sorry to see one of your eyes be taken away… but you see this could be a very good opportunity in disguise.”

“Seeing as how I’m dying right now I must be hallucinating,” I murmured out loud feeling a sense of calmness come over me as I tried to make sense of just what exactly was happening.

“Well if you’re hallucinating right now what’s the harm in talking to me?” he asked, a smile crossing his face and I couldn't help but be reminded of the Cheshire cat.

“Well then I guess not, now what exactly would the devil want with me?”

“Well you see Tristan you’re a very interesting person, so full of hatred and blood lust… what would you say about immortality and powers?” he asked swimming closer to me.

“Well I would say that, that was preferable to dying…” I said, rolling my eye. How odd it was for me to be thinking of being confronted by the devil himself and offered immortality and power. Then again, it could possibly play into my want for revenge. That could explain this.

“So you accept my proposal then?” he asked, floating in front of my face. As I nodded, a smirk crossed his face before he lightly tapped my forehead—and then I found myself closing my right eye… when I awoke I found myself on the shore beside the cliff.

Standing up, I frowned as I felt parts of me beginning to fall off. I felt around in my pockets for the needle and thread I always kept in my pocket, threading the thread through the needle and began to sew myself back together.

When I finished I stumbled over to the edge of the water and smiled at my reflection, if I was immortal would I always look like this? Would I forever remain sixteen or would I just have the same body, but still age? If so I would be sixteen and on from there… what an odd reality I was faced with.

Not only would I never age or change but I would now forever have the evidence of my death be visible. Stitches covered my face from where I had been forced to sew my skin back together; and on my neck long lines of stitches were visible as well, but the most different thing about my appearance was my right eye.

While my left eye and eyelid were missing my right still remained… and was glowing, it was glowing a light blue color, which appeared even brighter in the dark. Smiling at my reflection I saw the stitches on my face lift upward and bared my teeth, noticing how they had been sharpened upon my changing.

Giggling, I jumped around in the air before looking up at the top of the cliff and closed my eye, envisioning my home. And as I opened my eye I found myself exactly where I had envisioned myself.

A slow smile crept across my face and I knelt down to the ground, picking up the knife my father had dropped after he had killed me. I walked into the house and slammed the door behind myself; stomping on the floor, glee running through my veins, along with anticipation—for what I would finally do.

Stomping around the house I waited for my father to come for me, and as I made my way through the house I stopped in front of his room and waited for him to come out.

Watching then waiting for his door to open, I felt a lightness enter my body and smirked at him. As I watched the shock overcome him when he saw me standing in front of him, still covered in blood from when he had killed me.

“Hello father, I’m back,” I said hefting the knife in my hands and jabbing him in the throat, reaching out and catching him as he fell backwards in shock. Slowly lowering him to the floor I giggled, delighted with my new powers and felt the power I had always craved as I saw fear enter his eyes.

Leaning down to face him better, I picked up the needle and thread I still had and sewed his right eyelid to his skin so he couldn't shut his eye. Before picking up the knife, I began to cut off his left eyelid and eye, “It’s okay father… an eye for an eye after all…”

Holding him down I stared at him as he bled out and was forced to watch me, I took his left eye and began to sew it into my own left eye socket, and began to wait for him to die.

Smiling as I saw him lay there in agony, but not able to move, due to me holding him down. I watched as he finally died, finally succumbing to the lack of blood… I stood up and smiled, triumphantly, down at him and then I ran. I ran outside, and I ran into the forest, not looking back as I felt the freedom that came from his death… then I wake up.

I wake up, with so many feelings inside of me, feelings that I can’t decipher and understand but the dreams are always the same. And that’s how I know that among my hallucinations and dreams that aren't real—these are however—these dreams along with Mia, are the only things I am sure of.

Because the dreams will never change… and she will never leave me... and I will never leave her, because we belong together, and I will make sure that, that never ever changes…Template:Sort