Ninety degree weather took full effect on the yard of Ashton's house, it felt like such heat only existed in that space. His feet had no grasp on the grass and soil beneath the soles of his cheap, nameless sneakers. It could've been from the intense sessions between him and the beautiful Marsala he held to him like the his secret lover; beautiful frame it had, a shiny surface that could only be complimented by what was inside.
It had been the greatest whine to Ashton's mouth, the champion of making him smile before he had to dispose of the formerly loved container.
The soft burns surely made it easier to do, giving the young man a youthful attitude that pushed the heated rays back with aggravation, irritation that showed with the sweat marks on his white shirt. Wearing black jeans couldn't have possibly helped the situation.
Why sit on a porch with this kind of weather? Who knows. Typical hood shit that can't be explained. Maybe it's why his hair was the way it was, not moisturized because he'd been so busy trying to dig himself in a hole. The kinky strands from his scalp was still enough to spark attention from the girls who saw it as some type of uniqueness to him.
He had hair, big fucking deal. Still though, him being aware of it at least gave him something to think about until his key to comfort walked around the circular block to get to him. West Philly, pretty and extremely diverse when it came to sidewalks or architecture.
"The hell you doing out here? You know what happened yesterday right? Nobody should be out right now," Jiverie shook his head as if he'd regret his question. The milky chocolate man towered above Ashton pretty significantly, it was part of the reason behind Jiverie's political power on the block. He made Ashton feel at home, made him feel like shit for trusting somebody in the area. Idiotic, chaotic, and yet an odd warmness around him when Jiv came into his realm of perception. That shit was a warmness that rose into an angry fire.
Still, he'd been ready to come in terms with the household in front of him. Not a structure made of wood, but heated fury and unimaginable horrors of a body filled with lead, random bodies. They've been forgotten about.
Bullets were like birthmarks, everyone had one in different forms, some were more visible than others though. And others were used to attack those suspected of nasty incidents.
Not the metaphorical ones.
Literal ones took the majority of what the word could be used for in a sentence, only thing people on the opposing end of one could possibly say was "fuck," and it spilled out of Ashton's mouth as his last word before the liquid memories flew from his body and the foundation of trust that held his body together with various joints had rattled at the soft touch of the grass.
This was arranged, obviously. Nobody being outside was a coincidence? Hell no. Hell no it wasn't. Couldn't have been. Who gave the bitch the leverage of walking away from my corpse?
Listening to my story sounds insane, a common thing us hive brain wielders have to go through. We have to hear this to understand our triggers. Mine must be death, that's what I'd assume. I get that now. Only thing left is to be portrayed in the pages of the brain.
He spoke of his death now with a calmness that could only be conjured by his dry wine.
What could he expect, some people would kill anyone under any circumstance for some street credit. Shit would sound like a fairytale to those who don't match the demographic, doesn't matter.
I've been given a second chance - seventeen, just how old I was when I died of gunshot wounds, nobody was brave enough to save me, or even check on my body.
Revenge would normally be something to avoid, popular culture makes it normal to believe such ambitions are bad.
No.
They're completely logical. A warrior doesn't sit and let shit happen, he takes care of the threat. I'm no warrior though, I'm a warmonger with a chess board I can play from both sides.
It was then that Ashton's trigger had been pushed and realized itself; in this moment, I am the trigger - death.
Whenever-the-Fuck Later
-Vocalized by the quantum mind's adaptive vocabulary.
The constant theme of wine and it's temporary healing capabilities ran across Ashton's mouth yet again; mental Limbo was better than Hell, right?
Again, didn't matter.
Just any day right? Nope. The feeling of home comes to Ashton again, another feeling that he didn't consider.
The emotion of high school, or the birthplace of his scheme. . . he loved his school.
Minutes passed extremely quickly and so did Ashton's steps in those cheap shoes he wore in his memory of being a hidden body.
He didn't remember walking through the large doors after he did it, but he felt excitement run through his veins like electrifying energy. His thrill didn't come from him possibly seeing his nonexistent friends, or from him communicating with the teachers who adored him.
His joy came from economics, a class he so happily joined with a smile despite being extremely late. A class where he sat right next to his lovely friend who could make his heart melt and his belly all glittery.
He was in school, but the sense of home came upon him when he laid eyes on someone who could only be Jiverie.
The taller boy froze with an intense fear that made him struggle with whatever he'd been writing with his pencil. He could piss himself.
The look of Ashton's face went from a smile to an insidious amalgamated sequence of deadly expressions. He wasn't happy now, he was fucking pissed at me.
I didn't expect him to come back. My legs feel warm, my eyes are heavy; I sense tears coming.
And I loved the sight of those tears, shows the bitch better for thinking he could possibly deal with someone like me.
"You don't talk anymore, why's that?" Ashton said to his silent enemy, who smelled of urine.
The two were alone though, only in this reality that Ashton seemed to have full control of.
Jiverie continued with his silence, one that rung Ashton's ears with enough frustration to get up from his desk, standing over it with his palms placed on the surface, almost as if he was ready to pounce.
"If you want payback, you can take those false hopes somewhere else. Fuck you," Jiverie said with his hardest attempt at a deeper voice than usual - maybe for the sake of intimidation.
The words were met with the impact of Ashton's knuckles on the bottom of Jiverie's jaw, a blow that knocked his mouth loose, an attack so fast at such a long distance but still managing to make the victim of its power cry.
One more punch let Ashton know that his foe was ready to stay respectful when he asked his damn questions. He didn't give a fuck about questioning now.
Jiv couldn't move, he was a puppet, one that Ashton barraged with attempts at breaking his arms and legs- attempts were successful.
Why couldn't Jiv just rest, why was he still woke? Still seeing and feeling everything?
Ashton sat back down at his desk with a pencil in hand. He had no blood on him, nothing. He looked flawless, and the kinks in his hair were unbothered.
Jiv however, was now played on the front desk as a bleeding display of what intelligence could deal under the influence of revenge.
Time began as normal, and a sonic boom erupted, a sonic book conjured by yells and screams of students who erupted from their seats to find the damaged male bleeding without reason. They saw nothing, at the most- they would probably be right by saying Jiv teleported both in location and in physical state.
The teacher of the class was mute.
Ashton may have killed a man, but that was his revenge, his beautiful payback. He had the power to make a man twice his size stay still and endure extreme punishment.
He was only getting started.
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