It had been a few weeks since I've been home and everything was starting to feel normal again. Someone spread the word around that I was back in town after my hiatus and since then, I've heard some pretty interesting rumors start to circulate around the area.

While people haven't even thought of the possibility of me listening to their deep conversations, I was there, listening closely to all the gossip that people could speculate about me.

I thought the most bulls eye guess was that I went to jail and I was there for longer than expected because I wasn't behaving well. I want to assume this started to spread around because Tony must have said something. It was either he went around expressing his made up stories, or people remembered that I put him in a hospital a day before I left.

It felt like jail sometimes.

It was days like this where I felt happy to be left alone in the house. I usually didn't get off work so early and since I've been back, I've been pulling fifty hour work weeks. I didn't mind, seeing as my thoughts got distracted and my anger got taken out on cars rather than my body.

I set down an envelope of cash on the counter with the shitty handwriting 𝕽𝖊𝖓𝖙 sprawled in the front, I noticed a phone sitting casually beside a stack of bananas. Curiosity hit and I pressed the home screen button to reveal a photo of Aria and a man beside her, making goofy faces towards the camera.

Since our first encounter, we hadn't really acknowledged our existence whenever around each other. I thought it was best, seeing as she'd just be a distraction and another person that I didn't want to worry about.

She hadn't made any attempts to speak to me. I haven't either.

What's kept me amused the most over the last few weeks besides the rumors about me, was the fact that every time Aria and I actually crossed paths, she'd linger for a moment, waiting for me to say something to her.

I almost purposely acted like I was about to speak, then say nothing just to piss her off.

It was too easy.

It made me laugh. I couldn't take her seriously, and even when she looked angry, to me she only looked more naive. I couldn't help but snicker because each time she thought I wasn't paying attention, she stared at me, but when I looked over at her, she quickly frowns and turns away. It was almost as if she was desperate to get a word out of me, but I didn't bother. This had turned into a game for me.

Showering never felt so good. It was almost satisfying to watch the water turn grey from all the grease slipping off my body and into the drain. The water vouched for my hard work ethic.

Who knew.

You're a weak boy, Elias. We will have to change that. An extremely familiar voice suddenly made his way into my head.

It wasn't not often that I thought of him anymore.

You call that a hit, come on, hit me. Hit me! His screaming in my head almost sounded as if he was standing in the room with me.

I shuddered at the thought.

This was the voice I've always hated dreaming about, thinking about. My father wasn't worthy of having a single thought be thought about him.

You'll never make it in this world without me. His voice spiraled inside my head once again.

I pushed my past conversations out of my head and swiftly exited the shower, feeling as if I couldn't breathe anymore due to the steam. I looked around the walls of my room and mapped out the place, looking at every corner to make sure I really was alone. Noticing the window, I ran over to it and locked it quickly to make sure no one can get in even though I was quite high up and it was nearly impossible to climb.

Let this be a lesson to you.

I winced and wrapped my arms around my ribs. Remembering those words almost brought back the physical pain he'd brought upon me. I challenged his ways, I started questioning his logic, and for that I was punished. Even though I fought back, he overpowered me so quickly.

My father and I had a relationship that most, if any, family didn't share. We never once got along, and we fought over absolutely everything. Except, we didn't fight in the way most people would think.

He would hit me.

I'd hit him harder.

He'd knock me out.

It wasn't always like that. When my mother was still alive and healthy, he was a completely different person. He was happy. I vaguely remember it being that way.

When she died, a part of him also died.

I didn't hit my father back because I was losing my temper, but quite the opposite. He wouldn't hit me because he was angry at something I said and did wrong, at least not always.

I was hit to be taught a lesson. I was hit so I could learn how to deal with pain properly and like a man. I was forced to hit him back to prove that I can defend myself. It turned me mad.

He trained me to be this way. And thanks to him, I've never lost a single fight but I surely started many. I fiend off it.

You're a disappointment, Elias.

I remembered him giving me a wicked expression as he caught my throw mid punch in his hands, as if I was giving it to him willingly.

That mistake gave me a punishment scar.

You want to be good at something? Watch for the blind spots.

I still had a small scar on my wrist from where his dirty fingernails pressed so deeply into my skin, I began to bleed. Of course, he said it build strength and character.

My father didn't always teach me to fight by fighting and actually giving me real clues on how to become better. There were more times than not, where he'd just drink himself so dry that he'd just beat on me. Giving me absolutely no chance to fight back. When he'd beat on me, sometimes it was best to just let him. It'd be a dumb move to fight back when he was in certain states, and it was very easy to pick out the right time to fight back or to just keep quiet and let him do what he needed to do. I'd try to reason with him, tell him that he's better than this and to think about Mom. That made things worse.

Towards the end of our relationship, I didn't let him touch me as much as I used to. In fact, there were many times where I was able to dodge him and block him from attacking me. There were many times where he would hit me square in the head and I'd practically black out and by the time my vision cleared, he'd already have me pinned.

Cross me, I know all of your weak points. I could easily break you.

Thinking about becoming this way almost made me smile. I fed off the adrenaline of taking out my anger and proving that I was just as evil as people said I was. I hated that I liked being this way and it was a sick way to think.

I would never be my father though, and I'd never hit a woman or a child. I'd fight only when I needed to, only when whoever it was deserved it. I'd fight to protect myself and those I actually cared for.

But it makes me sometimes smile to think about who I've become and all the really shady things I've done. That's the fucked up, insane part of me coming through - The side of me that's almost proud of how I was raised and not ashamed of himself.

Except that I am. And I tried to never show that side of me.

My father, he never let me win a fight. There's been many times where I've snuck up on him and tried to hurt him so bad, that maybe I'd actually kill him. I'd fight to see actual blood and hope that his heart would just give out. I never won a fight against him until the very last day I've ever saw him.

I walked out of my room and looked around the house, scanning for anything out of place. When I finished my mini investigation, I started pacing back and forth, unsure what to do with myself. As much as I wanted to relax, I was on high alert, thinking of these memories that haunted me every so often.

I started to freak myself out more, thinking harder and harder on the topic. While I was away in the facility, I was diagnosed with many things. The doctors noticed my random psychotic episodes and after two months of therapy, two months of me not saying a word to them, after I finally started to open up barely on my past, they assured me that this was normal. Having random flashbacks, certain voices appear in your head in the form of memories, it's very common for someone with PTSD.

Liking the bad side of myself, was common because of the trauma. Something I'd have to figure out how to release on my own.

I knew there wasn't a chance of him being here in the house with me, let alone even the same city or perimeter, but when you thought so hard about a scenario, it started to be such a clear image that you'd swear it to be real. The anxiety of it becoming real was so overpowering. Not many people would understand that.

I wouldn't say that I was still petrified of him, that'd be an understatement. If I saw him again, I'd be out for blood. His heart wouldn't be beating much longer if I had the chance to stand before him. I wasn't the weak person he remembered. I was much stronger. Much angrier.

I walked over to the small speaker that was resting on the island where the kitchen was and threw on some quiet music. I stared at the speaker, waiting for it to magically cure me but it didn't.

I ran my hands through my wet hair and took in a deep breath, letting everything out in one exhale.

I grabbed my smokes off the table and felt instant withdrawals. Before I even made it outside onto the balcony, I was already lighting one up and breathing in the toxins.

I couldn't be more disappointed in myself for letting him still have an effect on me. I wasn't afraid of him, I hadn't been for a long time. I was more scared of myself, and who I was turning into because I was raised by a monster for seventeen years.

That personality was exactly what brought me into the world of Nash.

Nash met me on the streets, days after I ran away from my father. From the second he laid eyes on me, it's as if he knew I was vulnerable - an easy target. He introduced himself with a warm smile and a heavy handshake. "You look lost." He stated, his eyes were wider than what they should be and he had bags under his eyes as if he hadn't slept in days. "Not from around here, are you?"

"No."

"Let me guess... Ran away?" He flashed his straight, white teeth. He looked fresh and clean, but you could tell there was something off.

"Something like that."

He looked around, and met eye contact with some people who were standing across the road from us, in front of an alley. He nodded his head at them before turning back to me. "I'm Nash."

"Eli."

"Eli," He repeated. "Do you have a place to stay?"

Nash was around twenty-four years old and had the lightest skin of them all, almost as pale as I was. He had dark eyes, almost black, making it almost impossible to tell the difference between his iris and pupils. His hair was short but he always wore a hat to cover it anyways. He had neck tattoos, chest tattoos, and full sleeves on his arms. I admit I was intrigued. I was only seventeen.

Nash's looks were almost model like, if you took away the obvious lack of sleep from substances. On his neck, the tattoo that stood out the most to me was the bio hazard symbol. In the middle there was a goat skull and two of the symbols spikes rested on top of the head, making it look like it was devil horns.

His lifestyle interested me, and his friends made it inviting.

Darius was the tallest and most muscular of the four of them. He looked to be close to thirty years old and had tanned skin and dark, thick black hair. On his bicep, there was the same symbol that Nash had on his neck. Darius was the protector of the group, he was very quiet. Nash's second hand man.

Vince was the shortest of them all, including myself. He was young, maybe the same age as I was. His hair was buzzed off but from what I could tell from the stubble, he was a blonde. He had attitude, made himself look bigger than he was through the way he spoke - an instigator. He too, had a matching tattoo on his calf.

Then there was Marcus. Around twenty-two, twenty-three. He was dark skinned, about the same height as me, and closest to Vince. Marcus had his tattoo on his neck too, but in the back.

By the time I realized just how dangerous Nash was, it was too late for me to leave. Nash treated me better than Darius at first. It was as if I was his replacement. He'd feed me, let me live with them, made sure I was taken care of, and looked at me as if I was his brother. It was a nice change from where I was before.

Things turned quickly.

The thought of Nash flickered through my head as if a slideshow was playing. I remembered the adrenaline I felt when he introduced me into cocaine. I felt butterflies in my stomach and waves of uncertainty while I looked at the line of white dust in front of me. Nash watched me, eyeing me down as if this was my first test.

And it was. My first line, my first pill pop, my first overdose, my first arrest, Nash was there for it all.

Nash, he was very smart. He was the brains of everything - very good at business and knew how to keep his clients happy. He took care of the money and made sure everyone was paid and taken care of. He'd keep track of everything everyone was doing, from how much Darius would buy, how much Marcus would sell and to who, what valuables Vince has been stealing, and he'd make sure nothing was left unnoticed. He trusted me enough to show me the ins and outs of his business but it came with a price.

You think you could just leave?! I will fucking find you! I will fucking kill you!

I shot my eyes open, hearing his voice so clearly that I could've sworn he was in the room with me. I was alone. I was safe.

The boys and I didn't even need to steal the things we did. We, or more so them, they had enough money from selling drugs to be able to afford to live a comfortable life, but there was something about the rush of adrenaline of swiping something off the shelves of various stores that made it fun. That's what a lot of it was, was fun.

We would often break into people's houses for fun and take things that didn't belong to us just to feel a rush and because we felt like it. It wasn't always like that. And I didn't always take things. I had a conscience.

I sat down on the floor, my back leaning against the wall right outside of my room. I put my knees up to my chest and rest my elbows on top, letting my face rest in my hands. I really was going fucking crazy.

I didn't want to think about it anymore. I didn't want to remember it. I wanted the painful memories to vanish.

People didn't understand why I had random moments of panic. They didn't get it.

I was taught to become a fighter, taught to not let people push me around. I was taught when the right time was to keep your mouth shut or else you're only just asking for it. And I was taught to never rat another person out, even if they've done you so dirty.

It was just how some people grew up. There's nothing else to it.

I was just glad that the people I cared about didn't have to have a horrifying life.

I've done so wrong to so many people. To strangers, to myself, to Tyler, Tony, James, and Lacey.

To Nash.

I've ran so far from my mistakes, and have hidden for years. I've tried to turn my life around and make it better, and yet, four years later I was still struggling daily. I hadn't gotten as far as I'd hoped but to be fair, I never thought I'd even come this far. I didn't think I'd see past twenty-one. I thought for sure I'd be dead before then. I was practically set up for failure and that's just how it goes for some people. You can't always change it.

I can feel the anger build up inside me.

The door opens to my house slowly.