Year I

1.Prologue

Have you ever killed a man? A woman? God forbid, uh, what's the word I'm looking for? Well, a person who can't decide. Or a person who takes Halloween too far. What I'm trying to ask is: Have you ever killed a person? If so, then I hope you go to prison, you scum. But...

But, if you're reading this book in a prison cell, then I- I- I won't get to the end of my sentence, just like you won't with yours.

Aha... Jokes.

I love jokes, but I'm not a comedian. I'm seriously not. I wish I were, but no. I just a skinny, white kid starting my freshman year of high school. And I don't have many friends because I lost a few in middle school. I also don't have many siblings because I lost a few in a terrible house fire two years ago.

I'm kidding. My mother had three abortions.

She never cared to explain why, though. I don't know. She just didn't want to explain herself. Not going to lie; I was devastated. I was about to name my little brothers: Timmy, Tommy, and Bobby. We could have built a spaceship out of cardboard in our backyard or beat each other up in a pillow fight. Well, the opportunity was wasted.

And, it doesn't matter anymore because Mom died in a terrible house fire two years ago.

You may find this unsetting, and it's not your fault. I'm going on a tangent. And I'm sorry that I am. The narrator, Steve, is running late.

He is supposed to be in the studio by now, and he's late. You guys are here, listening to my rants, waiting for my story to be told. Don't you worry. He will come. I will entertain you as best as I can until he comes.

Now, what should I talk about next? Um, my favorite color is blue. Looking at the sky and the ocean calms me. It really does. What's your favorite color? Red? Green? Orange?

I'll assume your favorite color is also blue since I can't hear you because I'm just a word on a page. And, if you actually said your favorite color to the book, congratulations, you just developed schizophrenia.

It's funny. You spoke to an inanimate object, hoping it will talk back to you.

Go back to therapy, get some help, you freak!

Anyway, I-

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Come in. Oh, hello. Yeah, set your bag on the chair, and hang your coat on the hanger.

"Am I late?"

Yes, you're fucking late, Steve. While you were gone, I was talking to the readers. If you don't hurry the fuck up, the readers will get bored and close the book. We haven't started yet, and we're losing them. Do you have the script?

"Yes."

Okay, now get in the booth. Clear your disgusting throat. Don't stumble across the words while you read to them. Ready?

"I'm ready."

Good. Catch you at the flip side.