Cian

I was an idiot.

Well, not me, necessarily—but the human version of me, that naive pest that had somehow managed to bubble up without my consent. When I finally came back around, it was dark save for the streetlights dotting the sidewalks, moths large white blurs as they buzzed against them. I was kneeling beside a payphone, my pockets looted for quarters.

The idiot.

If I—if he—had called someone...

In a sudden stroke of anger, I flew a fist at the payphone. I don't think I was expecting pain, but there was certainly a satisfaction to it, to seeing the metal dent in a little and the phone bend out of shape underneath my knuckles. I shook out my hand with a maniacal laugh. I was drunk off rage.

Now I was late.

There was no time to wait around for a bus, not that I was complaining. There was no time at all.

I turned from the ruined payphone and scoured the gas station I stood near. It was an island of blinding light in a sea of black, and within it was a single car, one of those fancy low-emission vehicles that ran more on pixie dust than on gasoline. Standing outside it was a middle-aged man in a sweater, neatly pressed slacks, and leather shoes polished to the ultimate shine. He had the kind of hair I despised: slicked back with bottles and bottles of gel, not a single strand out of place.

Well, to be fair, it wasn't just the hair that I despised. It was everything about him. It was the furtive way in which he searched around, just waiting for someone to attack him. It was the mindlessness with which he pulled out his newest-model smartphone, checked it, slid it back into his pocket. It was his expensive cologne and his straightened collar and his expressionless face. He oozed privilege and oblivion.

Maybe it was that he reminded me of my father. Like hell I should even call him that.

I stepped from the shadows; the man didn't notice me. He pulled out his phone, checked it, put it away again.

I acted like I cared if anyone saw, observing my surroundings to make sure the coast was clear. The cashier within the station's drug store was slumped over, asleep, and the dim sidewalks were vacant. All that was there was the slow, melodic song seeping through the speakers, the pungency of rubber and dripping petroleum.

When I was but a few feet away, the guy finally looked up. A flash of discomfort crossed his face. He greeted me, but the words were mumbled and strung together, almost incomprehensible: "Hihowareyou."

"I'm fine," I said, then stabbed him swiftly with the tip of the keen shadows that grew like old tree branches from my shoulder blades. "You're not."

It was too late for him to look stunned, because he was already dead. He fell limp against the dank pavement, and I kicked him to the side, out of the way of the tires. Blood swelled in a sticky red pool underneath him as I fished his car keys from his pocket, climbed into his sedan, and sped off.

I was going to reach Los Angeles, and then I was going to kill my father.

And I'd make sure it hurt.