Chapter 1

<Jasper Coven>

There's a wooden picture frame on the mantle in my house. It's shows a family; a family much happier than my own where two boys are smiling while their mom and dad hug them tightly. The woman, young with dark hair and bright eyes, has one arm around her husband's neck and the other around her younger son. The man, bearded and tough, smiles directly at the camera with his muscled arm around his older son.

The family is sitting on the front steps of an old farmhouse that had been in the father's bloodline for generations. The sun was shining, bright beams of light danced off of the little blond boys' heads as they laughed with their parents. This was my family, but we're not them anymore. Time can change people and time changed my life from heaven to hell in what felt like a matter of seconds.

~~~~~

"Jasper, it's been awhile since you've come to see me." The school psychologist, Ms. Evans, says with a soft smile.

"It's been awhile since you've summoned me." I retort and cross my arms.

"You don't only have to come in when I ask you too..." Ms. Evans voice trails off as she realizes that she won't be getting through to me any time soon.

"Why did you call me in?" I ask, not really in the mood to sit in the awkward silence.

"Just to talk, to see how things are going..." Ms. Evans sighs and taps her pen on the yellow notepad in front of her.

"Just about as well as they were the last time you asked." I respond calmly, no insincerity or sadness present.

"Jasper, you have to open up to me; it's the only way I can help you." Ms. Evans pleads, her fingers lacing together as she continues to look at me.

"I don't want any help; I can deal with it perfectly fine on my own." I snap and glower at the wall above her head.

"No, you can't. I can see it in your eyes; you're barely hanging on." Ms. Evans whispers gently so as not to provoke me.

"Did they give you a degree to read people's faces?" I snort and avert my eyes from hers.

"Jasper, please don't be this way; I'm only trying to help." Ms. Evans says in the annoyingly peaceful manner most psychologists seem to possess.

"What do you want me to say?" I practically explode and stand up from my chair. "My dad still spends every day drunk off his ass, my mom still has to run his damn farm for him, meaning she's never around and my brother..."

"Jasper, I know what happened last year was hard on you." Ms. Evans comments gently.

"You don't even know the half of it." I respond and exhale an angry breath.

"Then please enlighten me," She pleads again, hoping she'll finally get through to me.

"I don't want to talk about that." I grit my teeth and reach for my bag, which is strewn dejectedly on the floor by the chair I always sit in when I come here.

"I think it would be best if we continue this another time." Ms. Evans states in an even tone, not revealing her reaction to my prior outburst. "You may go back to class, Jasper."

"Thank you, ma'am." I huff and turn on my heel as I walk out of her office.

~~~~~

I make my way slowly towards my seventh period human anatomy class, which is filled with seniors who are already anxious to leave despite the fact that it's only September. My hand turns the knob on the door quietly as I try to slip into class undetected. My plan goes completely astray the minute my foot is through the door.

"Mr. Coven, is my class not worth showing up on time to?" My teacher, a balding man with beady blue eyes, squints at me through his wire-rimmed glasses.

I try to formulate a respectful response, however, I suddenly become aware of the judgmental eyes of my classmates on me. I try to ignore them, but their glares are burning my skin and make concentrating near impossible. My mouth has long since gone dry and I continue to move my lips as I try to come up with a response.

"Cat got your tongue?" Someone sniggers from next to me, causing my cheeks to redden.

I'm glad someone gets a kick out of my social anxiety.

"Do you have an explanation?" Mr. Roberts, my displeased teacher, sighs in an exasperated way.

I don't say anything, my mouth closed and jaw set angrily as I will this little confrontation to end.

"In future, please try your best to come here on time." My teacher rolls his eyes and dismisses me to my lab table at the back of the classroom.

As I begin to walk towards my seat, I hear him mumble something about seniors and their complete disregard for school. People whisper behind their hands as I pass by and then Mr. Roberts resumes his lecture once again. I settle into my normal chair and pull out a notebook with the intent to take notes, but no will to actually listen. I pretend to reach for something in my bag so I have a reason to turn around and check the clock.

I should've stayed with Ms. Evans longer, at least it would've prevented me from being stuck in science for a grueling hour and a half.

~~~~~

Mr. Roberts is still droning on about the many properties of the human bones when I decide to sneak another look at the clock. The hour hand is still stuck stubbornly on the one, however, the minute hand is nearing the eleven. Sadly, this means that I still have ten minutes left in this hell.

"Ugh," I groan and tap my pencil on the lab table.

"Is my class paining you?" My teacher says from right in front of me, his glasses tipping precariously on the tip of his nose.

"No, sir." I grit my teeth and wait for him to move on to lecturing another student about their lack of attention.

"Screw you," I mumble at the back of his balding head while he walks away.

My classmates roll their eyes and glare at me for once again interrupting the precious lecture that they all weren't paying attention to anyway. I will never be able to comprehend why these people want to listen to him yak for an hour and a half every other day, but apparently it's very important to them and me, being the brilliant person that I am, decided to sign up for a science class even though I've already completed my science credits.

Not that it'd matter; there's no college that would take someone with my grades anyway.

The students stop staring at me as Mr. Roberts tells them to take notes on what he's about to say since it'll be on the quiz this coming Friday. I grudgingly take notes, my pencil scratching noisily as Mr. Roberts continues to lecture. The little confidence I have returns and the reddening of my cheeks from earlier finally subsides. I hear the clock tick by as my time in this God forsaken school slowly dwindles to a close. I stare stonily at the board, my gaze expertly avoiding all of my peers. The bell finally rings and I shove my stuff hastily into my bag as I rush towards the parking lot to find my truck.

I catch sight of it in the far corner of the lot surrounded by snobby BMWs and various brands of convertibles. I hop inside and turn the key in the ignition. The truck hums to life and then I begin driving farther and farther away from the hell that is high school. My wheels keep turning and I drive out past some pastures full of cattle and horses until I reach my dad's farm, if he even has a right to claim it as such. The ranch hands are herding cattle as I drive down the dirt road towards the old farmhouse that's been in our family for generations. I park in front of the house and run up the creaky steps towards the white front door with its peeling paint and alcohol stains.

"Jonathan, I can't believe you'd do something so stupid!" I hear my mother shout and next thing I know a plate is being thrown at the wall above my father's head.

My father on the other hand is sitting in his recliner as stoned as Keith Richards. I don't know why my mother believes anything he says when he's in this state. He barely knows where he is let alone what he's done within the past forty-eight hours. I walk through the living room and try to make my way to the stairs without having to talk to either of them.

"Jasper," My dad coughs and lights a cigarette.

"Yes, sir..." I narrow my eyes because he rarely acknowledges my existence.

"Get me the Bourbon..." His voice is thick with smoke and sleeplessness.

I roll my eyes and go over to the liquor cabinet. I grab the bottle and pour him a glass. I don't even know why I bother pouring him a glass, though; he'll end up drinking the whole bottle anyway. I walk the glass and the bottle over to him. His eyes are bloodshot and he seems to be shaking slightly. He probably smoked a little too much last night. My dad takes the glass from me and downs the whole thing in one gulp.

"Pour me another," He says with no interest in having an actual conversation with his only son.

"You know someday you'll OD on this stuff..." I grumble bitterly as I hand him his glass.

"Jasper, please don't speak to your father that way. You know it'll just make things worse." My mother whispers in a gentle voice.

I turn slowly and look at her with pity. Between the two of my parents, I like her best. She may be preoccupied and have a short temper sometimes, but she actually cares for me. She feeds me, clothes me, makes sure I go to school and makes sure that I stay out of trouble. My mother has a much sweeter disposition and is gentler than my father, despite the fact she's never really around. That's my father's fault though. He's a textbook definition of an alcoholic and a drug addict which means that he can't take care of his farm, leaving my mother to do all of the work.

The phone rings and my mother rushes off to answer it. I follow her into the kitchen and watch the worry lines multiply on her forehead. She talks in a solemn voice to whomever is on the other end of the phone. My mother rubs her forehead and then hangs up, not even saying goodbye to the person. She walks over to the sink and begins to wash the dishes that wouldn't fit in the dishwasher. I watch her but hold my tongue, not sure of why I'm still standing in the kitchen.

"I bet you're wondering why I threw the plate at your father's head...Aren't you?" She asks with a sigh.

I nod somberly and wait for her answer.

"I sent him to town today to pick up some tools so you could fix the fence this weekend and he went, but he cussed out the shopkeeper and refused to pay full price for the supplies. Then he walked off with the supplies. That call you just witnessed was from the police saying that your father needs to appear in court for evading arrest and theft by Saturday or he goes to jail. Jasper, I can't foot anymore legal bills from him and soon enough the cops will find out about the drugs and then we'll all be in trouble..." Tears fill my mother's eyes as she scrubs the plate she's holding.

I sit in silence, trying to come up with something to say.

"Jasper, I'm sorry you're stuck in this mess. I'm sorry I'm not the mother you deserve, but I am trying my best." She wipes her tears and turns towards me.

"I know, mom. I'll get us away from him some way, somehow." I stand up and wrap my arms around her.

"I love you, Jasper." My mom whispers.

"I love you too." With that I walk out of the kitchen to take my stuff up to my room.

I pick up my bag off of the floor and walk past my father without so much as a sideways glance. I hear him grunt behind me.

"Get me something strong." He says, trying his hardest to focus his eyes on one spot.

"How 'bout my fist through your nose?" I mutter sarcastically.

"Did you just threaten me, son?" He yells, his cheeks angrily burning red.

"No, sir that was my evil twin." I cross my arms solemnly and begin to walk up the stairs.

"You come back here, boy..." My father shouts drunkenly.

"Oh, so now I'm not even Jasper, I'm just boy..." I think to myself and continue walking towards the stairs.

"I said come over here..." I look back and see my father still struggling to focus his eyes on me; he'll be passed out within the hour.

I roll my eyes and race up to my room. I throw my bag onto my bed and grab my guitar, ready for some much needed time away from this house. I'm barely in here on minute and I already want to leave... With my guitar in hand, I run down the stairs and sneak out the back door without being seen by either of my parents.

I breathe in some fresh air that hasn't been tainted by smoke, alcohol or tension. My body feels a little better as I walk parallel to the train tracks until I reach my favorite spot; a little hill and a big oak tree with a tire swing. I used to come here all the time, but that was before what happened last year.

Trees line this part of the train tracks and offer some much needed shade should anyone require an escape from reality, as I so often do. I take a seat in the soft grass and stare up at the clear blue sky. I hear the soft roar of a distant train and the song of a little bird flying overhead. Most people wouldn't give my little spot a second glance because it's right next to the train tracks on the redneck side of town. Most people don't even know my side of town exists, but that's okay because I wouldn't want them to know anyway. They would just come ruin it with their petty problems and top notch cars. The sounds cease a few minutes later and I'm enveloped in complete silence.

I run my fingers over the beat up leather of my guitar case and feel the familiarity course through me. Playing my guitar is the only time I feel even the slightest happiness. Playing my guitar is my time and it's the one thing no one can take away from me. I don't have to worry about my drunk father or my busy mother or all the demons at school. It's just me, my guitar and my imagination. My guitar doesn't judge me; it doesn't look at me sideways or wonder why I am the way I am. It does exactly what I want, no questions asked.

At school, I'm completely alone. I sit in the back of the classroom and spend my days being overlooked by teachers and students alike. The only staff member that takes an actual interest in me is Ms. Evans and that's because it's her job to be interested in problem children like me. I eat in the hallway away from all of my fellow students, I never answer questions and I never open up to people because it always ends in me getting hurt. No one understands what I have to deal with, the whispers that follow me and the looks that burn my skin every time I make a move; I'm just better off alone.

At home, I'm a problem to my parents. I honestly think they'd be happier if I just ran away. My dad's too drunk or high most of the time to care and my mom's too busy running the house and farm that my father can't. Even they think they'd be better off without me but sadly, since this nation has laws against disowning your children, they'll have to wait until I turn eighteen to kick me out. I actually can't wait for that time to come because then I'll get to leave my devil of a father and my mother who, no matter how many times she tells me she loves me, would be better off without me. I'll leave them both in that hell of a home and never come back. I could go anywhere and do anything without having to worry about the beating I'll receive when I get home.

I strum the tuned strings of my guitar as I search for a pick in my perfectly organized guitar case. My fingers find the small piece of plastic with my brother's initials scribbled on it, at the bottom of a torn-up plastic bag where I keep my extra picks and pencils. I like to use this one specifically because it makes me feel close to my brother, the one who was always there to take the edge off my father's rage. I breathe in deeply and begin playing. At first I start off mellow and gradually build into an angrier set of chords. All my emotions course through me and come out through the strings of the guitar. The song builds and builds until I feel my frustration subsiding. I pull out a beat-up notebook and begin to scribble down some lyrics to a song I have no plans of ever sharing. Using my pencil as a bookmark, I allow the notebook to close as I lay back on the grass, still strumming.

"Way back on the radio dial, the fire got lit inside a bright-eyed child. Every note just wrapped around his soul; steel guitars to Memphis all the way to rock n' roll." I sing, the familiar lyrics spilling off my tongue until I hear a sneeze coming from somewhere behind me.

I whip my head around, however, I don't see anything. I know there's somebody there, but I'm too pissed that I got interrupted to even care. I toss my guitar into its case and grab my notebook off the ground. I don't hear anymore noises as I'm packing up, but now I don't feel like playing since it seems like I'm being watched.

"Probably some stupid football jerk trying to bother the loner boy for kicks..." I mumble and walk back towards my house, if that's what it should even be called.