Hello everyone,

I hope you're as excited as I am about this Wattpad Block Party. Thanks again to for the constant awesomeness!

If you don't know me, I'm Karianne, but I usually just go by Kay and I've been on Wattpad for 9 years as . If you've ever seen people swooning about a certain Blake Eaton, that's my fault. Speaking of which, this time around I have decided to make my post in two parts. First, I decided to write a one shot about a certain infamous character of mine's POV: Jayden Eaton, Blake Eaton's brother.

Secondly, I give you guys the first chapter of my story The Family Curse, the first book from my , which is already completed on my page. I'm sharing it with you here so you guys can read the first book, because I'll start posting the second one, on September 1st.

I hope you enjoy my post. Without further ado, here it goes...

The squeaking sound of my opening door woke me up, as it did most mornings.

"How many times do I have to tell you? My door is like a Band-aid. You gotta push it open in one quick move," I mumbled into my pillow.

A little head peeked into my room. Okay, so maybe he wasn't exactly little anymore, but in my head my little brother would always be a two year old in diapers following me around everywhere with a big goofy grin on his face.

"Gooooood morning," he said sheepishly, slowly walking into my room.

I sighed and turned my head to look at him. "What do you want?"

Blake stared at his feet, switching his weight from one foot to the other. "There's this exhibition in town that I really, really want to go see. Would you mind going?"

It was totally my fault that Blake wanted to go to that exhibition. I'd been leaving flyers for it all over the apartment. The problem was, it took him too long to ask to go. I'd already seen it. Twice.

Blake made his careful way to me before handing me the flyer I'd been leaving for him.

"Isn't it its last day?" I asked my little brother.

"Yes."

I rolled my eyes at him. "Why didn't you ask before?"

"I didn't want to bother anyone."

I groaned a little. "Blake, if you want something in life, you need to stop being scared of asking for it."

He shrugged at my comment. "But I know you don't like art and I don't want to bother mom and dad. They're always so busy."

My little brother, ladies and gentleman; so knowledgeable and intuitive about some things, but also so clueless about others. "Who cares if they're busy? They're our parents. It's their job to endure our annoyingnity."

His eyes narrowed. "I don't think annoyingnity is a word."

I laughed. Little bugger. "Oh, so your ten year old butt can't ask to go to an exhibition but you can correct my English? Come here!" I jumped out of bed and went to grab him, but he was quick and ran away from me.

I chased him all the way to the kitchen while he laughed and taunted me.

I would let him win though, I always let him win.

I was barely five when my little brother was born, and my parents had left me with my grandparents the night my mother's contractions started. I hadn't liked that. I had been adamant about being there to meet my little brother the second he came into this world.

My grandparents caved in.

If I begged long enough for anything I'd get it.

I hadn't been allowed in the room, of course but I had seen him being taken away by the nurse. She had showed him to me, all crying and wrinkled.

Afterwards when we had gone to see him at the nursery, I was the only one to notice it. "That's not my brother."

"What was that?"

"That baby. That's not my brother. Did you kidnap my brother because that's not my brother?"

At first people thought I was throwing a tantrum but after fifteen minutes of screaming that I wanted to see my real brother doctor showed up and after careful double checking they realized they had switched two babies, Blake with another.

If I hadn't noticed it, we might have left with the wrong baby.

It was at that moment that I had discovered my purpose in life. I was my brother's keeper.

"What's all this ruckus about?" my father asked when he walked into the kitchen to his sons chasing each other. We both stopped running and stood side by side.

I gave Blake a little shove with my shoulder and whispered a, "Come on."

"Can we go to this exhibition?" he asked, giving my father the pamphlet. "It's the last day and I really want to go."

"And can I not go?" I added with a grin.

My father frowned. "Why not?"

"I already had plans with Kendall this afternoon."

"This was supposed to be a family day," my mother interjected, walking into the room.

"Family day?" I made a grimace. "Come on guys, we're always together. And I can just meet you up for dinner later. It'll be a family evening. And then we can do a family week if you guys want. Kendall's leaving with her parents on their business trip anyway."

My parents looked at each other.

"Please, please, pleasepleaseplease," Blake and I said in unison.

"Fine," my father accepted, "And you can bring Kendall along for dinner."

I grinned. "See, this is why you guys are the superior authority in this house. Your rule is firm but fair."

My mother laughed and my father rolled his eyes, while Blake and I smiled at each other in conspiracy.

That's how I ended up basking under the sun in my girlfriend's backyard lying on the grass beside her while she read.

"What if I say I shall not wait? What if I burst the fleshly Gate and pass, escaped, to thee? What if I file this mortal off, see where it hurt me,—that enough,— and wade in liberty? They cannot take us any more,—Dungeons may call, and guns implore; Unmeaning—now, to me, as laughter was an hour ago, or laces, or a travelling show, or who died yesterday!" Kendall closes the book in her hand. "Tell me again why I'm reading Emily Dickensen's poetry?" she asks me.

I keep my eyes close. "Because the exhibition Blake and my parents are at right now has a lot of bird imagery and birds make me think of Emily Dickinson." I smiled at her. "Also, I love having a British read American poetry."

"Are you trying to have me admit that you're the superior nation again?"

I laughed. "You're the one who said it. Now keep reading with your BBC accent," I teased her.

She flipped me off the British way.

I loved teasing her about her accent even though the sound of her voice was one of the most comforting things in my life.

I was adamant on never losing my New York accent. My little brother was already a lost cause. He'd always been like a sponge when it came to languages. He could learn them quite quickly and he picked up the accent of wherever we were staying in a matter of days.

I loved her accent. And I loved her. I had known Kendall for most of my life. And I think I had always sort of known I was in love with her too, but I had never acted upon those feeling until a couple of years ago. I think it was because I always knew I didn't have to rush things with her. I knew I would always have her by my side. There was no me without Kendall. She was a part of me and I was a part of her.

My brother might have been my responsibility but Kendall was my anchor.

"Also, why are you making me read a poem about suicide? Is this your way of asking for help?" Kendall whined.

I laughed. "Nah, definitely not. I plan on living forever. I'm immortal until the contrary is proven." She rolled her eyes at my comment.

Death was definitely not an option. I had my whole life already planned. I would go study literature at Oxford with Ken while she'd study history or art or whatever her heart desired and then I'd become an editor working at one of the Big Six publishing houses. My mother was a writer and one of the things I loved most in life was reading her stories and telling her how I thought they could be better. She said I had an eye for it. I wasn't sure if she was just messing with me, but I think she had followed most, if not all of my suggestions. I didn't have a talent to write, at least I never thought so, but I was a good critic.

So, I'd be an editor and I'd do paintings and drawings on the down low and I would sell them anonymously. I'd be a kind of Bansky.

I'd be the new Picasso, doing shapes and forms that were considered strange. I'd be the twenty-first century Van Gogh, I'd be misunderstood and mocked during my time but revered after my death. My drawings were peculiar, that's what my best friend Josh always said.

My little brother didn't know about my art, that was why I would stay anonymous. The second I realized that my brother loved art I also realized I would have to hide my own love of it.

Blake always compared himself to me and I knew that he always found himself lacking. If there was one thing I could give my brother, I would give him more confidence. Since I couldn't do that, I could take away the competition. If he didn't know I drew and painted, he wouldn't have to feel inferior when comparing his work to mine.

Kendall sighed contently beside me. "A beautiful sunny day with not one cloud in sight, how often do we get that here?"

I bopped her nose. "Oh, all my days are bright and sunny with you beside me."

She wrinkled her nose, and smiled. "You're so bloody corny."

"Thank you love," I said and then leaned over and kissed her.

With our forehead pressed against the other, Ken whispered, "Can't we just stay here all evening?"

I brushed my fingertips against her temple. "Afraid not, we gotta meet up with my family."

"How about we skip it?"

"It's family night. And I know Blake will want to talk to me all about the exhibit."

She snorted. "You and your brother..."

I laugh. "What's that tone?"

"You know, this relationship you have with your brother, it's no always healthy. He's not your charge. You don't need to take care of him all the time."

I sat up, smiling at her. "I beg to differ. He is my charge. He's my little brother. I have to take care of him."

"Your parents can take care of him."

I shook my head. "No, they can't. They just don't get him like I do."

"He wants to be you so bad that he'll never figure out who he actually is," she told me.

Even if that was true, that wouldn't change our relationship. "I'll show it to him. I'll show him the kind of person I know he can be."

"He might need to figure it out on his own," Kendall said softly.

"Maybe. But unfortunately for him, I'll never let him on his own. I'll always be there for him, no matter what."

She shook her head, but smiled at me. "You Eaton boys, you're so dramatic."

I grinned. "It's one of our numerous irresistible traits."

"Dramatic and corny. You're lucky I love you so much otherwise no one would put up with you."

"It's fine, I'll start dating Josh. He is my better half," I joked.

She gasped in fake shock and then shoved my shoulder teasingly. "And when exactly am I going to meet that better half?"

"Why would I introduce my mistress to my wife?"

"Which of the two am I?"

I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and got up on my feet. "I'll let you figure that one out on you own."

"Bloody idiot," she said before grabbing my extended hand as I pull her up on her feet.

Kendall's driver was taking us to the restaurant. I couldn't wait to have my own driving license. I had less than one year to wait.

Classical music was playing on the radio. I asked the driver to change it. I couldn't stand listening to recorded concerto. Recordings didn't do them justice. You should only listen to Beethoven or Debussy, Mozart and Tchaikovsky and all the greats in a concert hall, live, with the musicians playing in front of you. Anything else was just a pale copy. Your hairs didn't stand up in sheer awe if you were not in the same room as the instruments throwing vibrations all around them. It was just wrong. Everyone around me thought I didn't like classical music. I loved classical music, just in a setting that honoured it.

I looked at Kendall sitting beside me. I held her hand and smiled before reciting, "My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, and true plain hearts do in the faces rest. Where can we find two better hemispheres, without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mixed equally. If our two loves be one, or, thou and I love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die."

"John Donne?" she smirked. "Is this your way of admitting the UK is the superior nation?"

I laughed. "It's my way of saying I love you."

The car stopped at a red light.

We smiled at each other.

I hope you enjoyed Jayden's POV and getting to know him a little better. Also, that you realize he dies like ten minutes after the end of that chapter. MOUHAHAHA.

Next up, Family Curse.

I never understood how people could fall asleep in buses. I do get that when you are traveling hundreds of miles at a steady pace, the bus sort of lulls you to sleep, but I'd never be able to fall asleep besides a stranger, leaning my head against them, like the old lady beside me is doing, practically drooling on the only sweater I own. Especially considering the fact that I'm skinny as a stick and my shoulder is definitely not a soft and comforting place to lean on.

But then again I do have a rather untrusting attitude towards anything that is human or that walks or crawls or breathe, hell I'd even mistrust a tree if it felt like it was staring at me for too long—okay I totally ran away from a tree for that very reason but whatever.

Anyway, my schizophrenic tendencies aside, the point of this is, I'm in a damn bus, with a old drooling lady that smells like stalled Indian food and dead cat—the dead cat smell came when she slipped her feet out of her shoes—I'm hot as hell but I can't take my sweater off because I have an old lady leaning against me, I'm still far from destination, or at least I think I am. I haven't eaten in god knows how long. Well that's not true I did pick an untouched quesadilla still in its box on top of a garbage can—beggars can't be choosers—yesterday, and if I had a gun in my bag I would be going on a rampage, no doubts.

I sighed in discouragement and almost pressed my forehead against the window beside me but automatically backed up when I realized how dirty it was—few squashed bugs with trails of their gooey insides, countless greasy finger stains, some unidentifiable clear greenish substance that might actually be snot to be honest—serves me right to pick the cheapest bus ride.

Shoot me in the end with a nail gun and don't clean the mess afterwards.

Good thing there's actually a purpose to this torture because otherwise screw the gun, I'd make do with my nails, a plastic spoon, hell, the old ladies shoes would probably work miracles...

The reason is, I just want to know why. It's what every kids that have been abandoned by their parents wonder; why? And how? How could they abandon me, why did they abandon me? The countless hours I spent in therapies all concluded that in order to move on with my life I had to find a resolution to this fatal question. By saying that they meant I had to deal with my own crap, but seeing as I don't do meditating and finding my inner peace in solitude bull I decided to instead track down my family, grab them by the collar, shake them a little and demand an answer.

It took me three years to raise the money by questionable means to be able to afford someone smarter than a five year old playing Sherlock Holmes to do the research. They were hard to find. For some reason it feels like they don't want to be found—ain't that too fucking bad for them? Those loses ain't gonna get away with abandoning me and not having to deal with it. If they couldn't deal with a kid they shouldn't have had sex to begin with!

Deep breathe, count to ten. One... two... three... four... five... six... seven... eight... nine... ten...

Fuck this, I'm still angry!

Anger management, another useless therapy and a waste of the public funds if you asked me.

It would be ridiculous to deny I have serious issues... Maybe I could've had a better attitude towards all of this, maybe I could have found my inner peace on my own if I hadn't been thrown in the hellholes I have.

My parents didn't even have the decency to put me up for adoption, to try to find people that wanted a child. No, forty days after I was born, my parents dropped me at a church's doorsteps and just left. They scribbled on a piece of paper my date of birth and my name and left a ring held by a silver chain that I was often tempted to pawn, and that was it. No birth certificate, and as far as my actually competent detective goes, he thinks I wasn't even born in an hospital—how more back-woods white trash can you get?