Half-Breed Read online

Half-Breed

  By Zachary Smith

  Text copyright © 2016 Zachary Smith

  All Rights Reserved

  For the daydreamers with their head in the clouds, never let anything stop you on your path to greatness

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  After-Author Scene

  Chapter 1

  Its hands tighten around my throat, pushing me against the bark of a tree. My assailant, a black silhouette of a person, laughing wildly the more I struggle to breathe. Is this it? The end, as they call it. I never saw it coming, but then who does. And how is this fair? I’m still young – a sixteen-year-old – but for some reason, I’ve been chosen to be one of those statistics that were in the wrong place at the wrong time. And why am I here? I don’t remember coming to a wooded area after dark. That just screams murder victim. Normally I’d be tucked away in my bedroom, sat behind the safety of my computer screen, surfing the internet or reading a comic book like a proper little geek should do.

  The being shrouded in black laughs again, this time, heavier and infectious. I can feel it seeping into my body, reaching every inch as it corrupts my very soul. But I don’t fight it, no, instead I welcome it and feed on the unnatural darkness, wanting it to take me over fully.

  Who is this person that willingly allows such an evil to flow through his veins? He’s someone I’ve never met before, yet I hear him every day, I know his likes and dislikes, I even know what he’s thinking and pass him in every reflection. He’s me.

  Looking to the shadow of my capturer, I find myself smiling and although I can’t see it, I know they smile back. And as their grip is released from my throat, I hold their gaze and wait. Always waiting.

  “SOON!” it roars.

  Beep! Beep! Beep! It’s that awful sound that rings throughout my ears every morning. A siren of sorts desperately trying to pierce my subconscious mind in an attempt to pull me out of my slumber. I try to ignore it – like I do every morning – fight its incessant wailing, and even hide under my duvet in a hope it’ll just fade away, but it never does. Beep! Beep! Beep! Instead, I’m sure it’s getting louder, taunting me, until I throw the covers from my warmed body to face the early morning chill. “Fine!” I groan, lifting my heavy head from the pillow and pushing strands of dark fluffy bed hair from my eyes.

  Starring down the alarm clock, the culprit, I whack the top button, before edging myself to the end of the bed where I remain seated, acclimatising my body to the sudden change in heat. This is something I should be used to, waking unrefreshed with a head filled with fog, eyes pained by the bright light and body aching like it hasn’t had enough time to recharge. Even today I can’t honestly say I was cut from a deep sleep, no, on some level I was awake, maybe in that snooze state, tumbling from one of my dreams. For I’m one of these people with a sleep disorder – so says my doctor – night terrors specifically; put simply, bad dreams. It sounds funny when I hear myself say it; a sixteen-year-old boy suffering from bad dreams. But these aren’t just regular bad dreams, as I’d do anything to be able to say I have those type of dreams every now and again, they sound like a fairy-tale compared to what I go through. Mine are more on the terrifying level, my own personal mind prison I cannot escape, and at times, they blur into my waking life. Worst of all they happen most nights, if not every night, to the point I cannot be sure as to when I last slept throughout without being disturbed, or if I have ever. And that’s exactly what happen last night, I had one of my episodes, but I can’t mull over it, that would be pointless as there’s nothing I can do about it. “He just has an overactive imagination,” the doctors would say. “He’ll grow out of it.”

  Sixteen years old, and still waiting to grow out of it.

  Completing my morning bathroom routine in a time quicker than normal, I return to my bedroom in a leap to avoid the dirty clothes I’d left at the base of my bed, open my curtains, and let the light stream in, exposing the mess I’d lived in over the weekend. For a stranger to see, they’d think me nothing more than a slob, but this couldn’t be further from the truth, as my bedroom is more to me than just a place I – try to – sleep, it’s my own personal sanctuary, a place in which I come to escape the clutter of the outside world. It’s minimalist, open and light, with a set place for everything. Centred between my wooden wardrobe and chest of drawers is my bed, opposite to that is my computer desk, with the only other addition being a makeshift bookshelf that houses old comic books, and dust covered DVDs and CDs I never use anymore. If it wasn’t for a nostalgic feeling I hold towards these old, irrelevant devices, they’d probably have ended up in a bin long ago, which would explain why I’m one of the last few people to own – and use – an alarm clock, instead of my smartphone. If only this practice could cross over onto my mind, allowing me to free myself from the daily grind of thinking a hundred thoughts per second, half of which don’t even feel like mine anymore, and it’s only gotten worse in the last few months, like someone has flipped a switch allowing for an unnatural corruption to infect my brain; accompanied by regular headaches. A new side effect of my night terrors perhaps?

  Feeling rushed, I enter the password on my desktop computer before the start-up music has even had time to finish, locate my coursework I’d spent all weekend on and hit print, before grabbing a pair of slim-fit black jeans to squeeze into, complete with the first random t-shirt I find in my drawers. Now with time to spare I lean back onto the bed and rest my strained eyes for a moment, listening to the printer churn out my work and tapping my feet to the rhythmic sound it makes.

  Silence follows and I take a moment to enjoy the peace and quiet before attempting to move, only for my body to fail me. Again, I try to move, an arm, a leg, but nothing. To say they’ve become unresponsive would be a lie as I’d need to be able to feel my limbs in order for them to ignore me. Even my sight has been stolen, for all I know my eyes are open, but I see nothing, just an empty abyss of black, a place where sound is no longer present, only my thoughts are.

  “SOON!”

  That voice fires through me like a bullet tearing at my skin. I’ve heard it before, it’s unnaturally deep and ghostly sound is ingrained within my mind, and spoken as if the owner is laying right beside me.

  In what’s a struggle to open my eyes, I’m greeted by such an intense light, that they’re forced to close again, saving them from the pain. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for my ear, as they have to endure being inundated by the sounds of the world; car engines motoring down the road, my computer cooling fan spinning at a high speed, even my mother humming to herself from downstairs is enough to pummel my fragile brain, as if I’m using all my senses for the first time, ever.

  Like my newly acquired thoughts, it’s only been these last few months that my night terrors have become more vivid and real, leaking into my waking life in quick short blips. Lying flat and gasping for air, I lift my head solely to take a quick scan of the room. I’m alone. So why do I keep searching high and low, in fear that someone else is with me? Again I scan every inch of my room, this time as I
stand, only for my initial conclusion to be confirmed. I am alone. Yet that voice, that harrowing sound that pulled me back into the real world resounds within my head, over and over again, as if whoever spoke is still here with me. “Nice one Mitchell,” I mutter to myself. “You really are losing it.”

  Having little time to spare wasted on worrying, I grab my freshly printed coursework and stuff it into my rucksack, gel my dark hair to the side, only for it to be flattened by my black snapback cap – a security blanket I never go anywhere without – before dashing for the doorway.

  “Mitchell Harper, I do believe this is a record, even for you.” Says my mum, as I hit the bottom step. “How late will you be today?”

  Flashing her a tooth filled grin, exposing my dimples, I make my way to the kitchen and an already set up table, complete with breakfast; tea and toast. The kitchen, much like the house, is small, but enough for my family. The counter tops are grey and follow the wall around until they get to the large window that overlooks the back garden, with a sink centred in the middle, making washing up that little less boring. Leaving only a small area for a table, complete with three chairs, which can be cramped when we all eat here at the same time.

  Taking a quick swig of tea, I winch as the scolding hot liquid burns the tip of my tongue. “Whoa whoa whoa!” says mum in her soft voice, joining me at the table. “You’ve plenty of time.”

  We have similar features, big round eyes, and a button nose – it’s a Harper thing, apparently – only she’s blonde, and her hair flows down past her shoulders. She’s youthful looking, barely lined and her frame is petite; most people are amazed she even has kids, let alone two teenage boys.

  “Heard you stirring a lot last night,” she says, lifting one of her eyebrows. “Should I make an appointment with Dr Cooper?”

  Chewing a mouth full of jam covered toast, I shake my head and swallow the large chunks, almost choking as I do so. “No, no,” I reply through coughs. “I haven’t had a night terror in weeks, I’m just swamped with coursework is all.”

  She holds my gaze for a moment, pursing her lips, before returning to emails on her smartphone, swiping through them as she mumbles the words aloud. Her job, an IT engineer, can be quite demanding at times, but has been perfect for raising two young boys, giving her the opportunity to work from home, as she didn’t get much help from her parents when we were younger. They aren’t estranged from one another, just not that close. We’re lucky if we see them twice a year, birthdays and Christmas – that’s if they haven’t flown away for the winter.

  Heavy footsteps sound from the hallway, breaking the silence mum and I had fallen into as we finish our breakfast. “Good morning!” beams my twin brother Matthew.

  We aren’t identical, far from it. He has the look of a typical jock; tall, bulging muscles and dark blonde hair. Most people can’t see the resemblance at all and don’t believe we’re even brothers, let alone twin brothers. There is only one similarity we bare, an eye disorder called heterochromia, where our eyes are a different colour to one another. My left eye being green, and the other being brown. Although we couldn’t even get that right, as his right eye is the green one, and his left is brown.

  Strutting into the kitchen with his chest out and head held high, Matthew grabs the newspaper from the table and begins to read it as he leans into the counter – normally the sports section – while gulping a protein shake, which would explain why he’s in his gym gear.

  “Good session?” asks mum, lifting her head momentarily, before returning it to her phone seconds later.

  “Not a full one this morning, as I got rugby training this afternoon.” He replies, tilting his head back to finish the last of his shake.

  “Make sure you don’t burn yourself out.” Says mum, as she flips her phone to hide the screen and pushes it away; something she’s done since we were children, used only when she wants/has to pay full attention.

  Smirking a non-dimpled smile, Matthew slides into the empty chair between us and snatches her mobile from the table. “Don’t worry about me mum, I’ll be fine.” He boasts, mockingly mimicking her as he noses through her emails. “Uh oh, someone’s computer won’t print,” he adds. “Disaster!”

  Grabbing back her phone, mum places it in her briefcase, completely out of reach from Matthew, as they then continue to talk all things Rugby, a conversation I have never been able to join them on. So I sit back and finish my breakfast while checking my mobile to see if I’ve had any more interest in a photo album I posted online a few weeks ago. It’s mainly landscape pictures taken from around my hometown of Shellbourne, England, or ‘The Shells’ as some out-of-towners have come to call it. Mainly due to the long stretch of sandy beaches, the best in England, so they say – whoever they are – and it’s easy to see why it’s such a popular location for holiday makers. Aside from the beaches, there’s lively nightclubs and bars, beautiful gardens, high-street shopping and a large leisure complex, which hosts various festivals.

  “Mitchell!” says Matthew while clapping his hands in my face. “You listening to me?”

  Caught in a daze, I blink hard and take a quick breath to regain my focus. No longer is the room warm and stuffy, but cold and empty. Standing beside me is Matthew, who is now dressed in his normal clothes, a t-shirt, and light jeans. Somehow he’s had enough time to get ready for college; he’s even fixed his hair, combed back like normal.

  Rubbing my eyes in disbelief, I stare back at the now empty chair my mum had occupied, then at Matthew. “W-W-Where?”

  “Where’s mum?” he says, frowning down at me. “She left like twenty minutes ago.”

  “Mitchell?” he adds, concerned. “You ok?”

  But his words flow past me without so much as registering, dampened by the ringing of that one word that calls out to me, a voice filled with darkness. Over and over it speaks a secret whisper deep within, begging for its freedom.

  And it says. “Soon!”