Wicked - 2. Jake 1

Sitting on a wall-shelf above my bed is a book with a pentagram on its cover, the Satanic Bible by Anton LaVey. It's the only book I own that I couldn't get through, unlike the stacks of other crime thrillers. I have a very short attention span and nothing maintains my interest for very long. Nothing except reading about murderers. I always get a thrill and imagine myself as the killer, getting off to the sadistic violence, everyone in the story so obsessed with finding me. When the killer gets caught at the end of the book I lay my head back after the thrilling, enrapturing journey... and consider how the killer got caught and what they could have done differently to evade the police.

At the end of the books – when I'm caught – the immersive story ends as if it was nothing more than a dream. No consequences, I go back to my day comfortably moving about in my apartment alone. I consume these books, and have a long mental list of every mistake they made to get caught and for the killings to stop. It is no longer I when the story ends, and each story feels like a trial run for the real thing.

In the kitchen I flick the latch to boil the jug, move around the breakfast counter of my small kitchen and sit on a stool. I look around at my small living space while I wait. Everything is neat and tidy. Nobody ever told me to clean up and I'm the only person who lives here, so I keep it clean myself. Self-sufficiency. I'd relied on myself for most of my life anyway.

With a twisted scowl I recalled my childhood. In the wake of such cruel circumstances, morality was never a concept I dwelled on. I was angry and bitter. To this day I never thought about right or wrong, or the lives of people that seemed to combust or unhinge at point of contact with mine. I only thought about having fun and what I wanted, with a fierce righteous insistence.

After a moment the jug trigger popped up, steam rising from the spout. I got up to pour myself coffee and replayed my life story, re-watched the past in my head as I did so, so often. Twisting a bolted screw even tighter.

I never knew my Dad. My Mum got pregnant with me when she was only eighteen and her traditionalist parents kicked her out of home immediately. Even so she refused to give up on me. With an all-consuming determination, perhaps in an effort to prove her parents wrong about her responsibility somehow, she exerted every effort to give me the best life she could despite the fact we had nothing. I was her single focus, her reason for living, and even when we were in squalid housing or homeless she did everything she could to spoil me. Wreaking of guilt at being unable to give me a better life, she endeavored to fulfill my every wish.

Even as a teenager my mother was very beautiful. And so am I: full lips, pink cheeks, glassy eyes and fine hair. I felt like the fair-faced young men from the Victorian era who turned the famous poets gay. The reason why people debated whether William Shakespeare was a homosexual. An attractiveness that was almost not masculine. The type of unquestionable beauty that could arouse bi-curiousity and attention from whomever, should I choose to experiment in pressing buttons or playing games.

From my birth we were on the streets. My beautiful mother found a man to take care of us until I was three. I remember his place the least, I think it was a normal suburban home. I only get flashes of standing in a cot and my mother coming into the room. The man I never recall seeing except at a distance, he was probably a weird type.

Between the ages of four to five we lived with another man who was distant with me. But Mum could afford to buy me whatever toys I wanted and teach me to swim in the backyard pool.

"You're my little prince." She often said to me at night, kissing my forehead after reading a bedtime story. I remember being demanding of her nightly tales and affection. We both understood she felt wholly responsible for my happiness.

From six to eight we lived in a mansion of a house. It was the first time I felt like proper royalty. I remember my Mum weeping with happiness as she traversed our new home, admiring all the marble fixtures and indoor rooms for various purposes. I remembered running around happily for hours on end, amazed at how far I could run, in loops around the second story. One time I tripped on the living room carpet and the man smacked me on the back of the head. He'd been physically abusing Mum for their entire relationship, and in being dependent on him she'd just allowed it. He was a drug user and got Mum hooked on needles and other concoctions. But smacking me seemed to be the last straw, we moved out again for the final time.

Between the ages of nine to twelve we lived in another nice house, but it was smaller than the one before it. I remembered being greatly displeased. I was acting up in school, constantly the new kid in different primary schools, I didn't play well or co-operate with the other children. I hated the idea of sharing. This new man actually tried to form a fatherly bond with me, somewhat. He tried, and although his relationship with my Mum lasted longer than the others it too began to collapse. While Mum's beauty reeled these guys in, it didn't maintain their interest in the long run, especially since her biggest passion in life was caring for me. I'd been angrily distancing myself from her smothering affection, and then one day she got back on the drugs in secret. Her new man was significantly older, like all the others, and had no interest in experimentation. So she injected herself in private one sad night and died of an overdose.

The man gave me up to a state orphanage, a putrid place where the workers didn't actually care about the abandoned children who came in from broken homes. Coming from parents with drug or mental problems. Us packed in like animals, twin bunk-beds in crappy rooms. I learned to fight there, to defend my minimal possessions and self. And then some weeks before I turned sixteen I was allowed government housing by myself in this small apartment complex.

And I'd lived here since, now eighteen. My Mum's last partner visited a few times in all these years but neither of us had any interest or liked each other. His attempts to be somewhat fatherly while Mum was alive had been obligatory. We both knew he'd just wanted a hot, dependent young woman to have sex with. A woman who'd have to do whatever he said, with no real life skills or work history, a pretty woman who was only good at showering her son with affection. Nobody had wanted the spoiled tike that came with the package deal.

I took a sip from my coffee. The same way I do all things: Spitefully. I was raised to be a king, assured of my greatness, and yet I'd had no palace for very long. Moving between homes and ultimately left with nothing. There is no greater injustice, I thought as I glared at a row of glass holders of tea bags and spices I'd been gifted by support workers last year and never used. I'd been universally wronged. There was no responsibility in anything I did, I was not responsible for my own actions. Everything that went sour or caused destruction could be blamed on the injustices of my upbringing.

I did as I liked, messy and chaotic creature that I was.

Today was Monday morning, and I needed to leave now if I was going to make the bus to school. I tried putting the jug back in its port and when it didn't fit in first try, I smashed it repeatedly against the counter to teach it a lesson. Afterwards I went around packing my school bag in a placid state. When I knocked my shoulder against the door, likewise I threw it against the wall several times before slamming it behind me. Suffice to say, there were a lot of dents in my apartment and appliances were often replaced. Anger management techniques with my appointed therapist hadn't worked yet, never mind the fact I wasn't practicing them anyway.

The elevator had been taped off for repairs for almost a month now. I took the staircase down. The whole apartment building was chipped paint, faded carpet with rat droppings. Smelling of insecticide but never completely exterminating the roaches you saw scuttling the walls at odd times. Behind each numbered door the kitchens, living rooms, bedroom and bathrooms were probably all the same industrious minimalism. Compact and faux-fancy modernism. Cheap, easily fraying materials and ill-fitting drawers.

I left to walk the sunny city of Brine in all its morning glory. A lot of young people lived here and so did retirees, old bodies in wet-suits were often enjoying the impressive surf. A whole street of shops sloped down to the esplanade, rooftop bars with lights and the grand pub frequented by the young and old alike, hosting bands and clubbing nights. Giant trees bordered the ocean footpath and at Christmas they were wrapped up with lights. The yellow beaches were expansive, stretching to rocky cliff-faces and boulder piles stacked so high it was exhausting to climb your way to the top. But past it were caves and tide-pools, where the secretive beachside booze parties were held.

Brine High had close to a thousand students from Years Nine to Twelve. It was a mostly-indoor school, three block buildings bordering the quadrangle and connected by above-ground passageways. The most recognizable landmark was the huge maple tree in an enclosure which was known by all as the Marble Tree. Its roots twisted above the dirt and heaps of kids would have competitions flicking marbles in obstacle races, through roots and hollows. Betting canteen money. In Autumn the whole thing became brilliantly red and then gold, shedding itself into piles that covered the adjacent pathway. Needing to be swept aside but quickly flurry-kicked by rule-breakers into a crunchy mess. Come Winter it was leaveless. As it was currently late Spring, the Canada-flag leaves were a healthy lime-green, twittering in the air when my bus pulled over to let me out.

I listened to music with headphones on my cracked-screen phone. Hopping up and following the line out. Trudging past the tall spiked fencing and following the crowd through the gate. I went straight to the music rooms, past the row of cypress trees that border the staff parking lot. Sliding through the door and opening up the auditorium entry.

"There he is." Laurene gave a mean smirk, the three boys around her looked up.

"What the hell are you doing being up before period one?"

"I had an early sleep for once." she answered me.

"No you didn't." I walked around the propped up instruments, over to the stage and the storeroom where I kept my keyboard. The only possession I treated with care.

"True. I didn't sleep. I'll probably crash by period three, sleep in here if I can't get Dad to take me home." her voice drawled from outside.

I carried the keyboard out "I only ever function on three hours sleep. Are you running on uppers?"

She raised her eyebrows at me daringly, viciously chewing a stick of gum.

Laurene was a total bitch and a massively spoilt brat – almost as bad as me. Her Daddy financed our rubbish band and paid for all our instruments. He also, unknowingly or not, paid for our rabid drug use. Weed, ecstasy and coke every weekend. The guys came from rich families as well, but they weren't as well off as Laurene's Dad who was CEO of a grocery chain or something like that. All of them were talentless scene kids with dyed hair and/or piercings. Laurene had the most piercings and dyed black hair, wore outrageously ridiculous punk clothes and threw frequent tantrums. She was the singer – screamer – of our band which was called Occupational Hazard. I think we all silently agreed the name was stupid, but Laurene liked to insist on things and the whole rock band thing was just an excuse to bum around and do whatever we wanted, seeing as none of us had any real talent. Only the money and drugs part.

Laurene's uncle touched her when she was little, so her family moved to Brine and gave her whatever she wanted. Laurene was an angry lesbian that picked fights and often ran away from home, only to stay at one of the guy's places and return a few days later when she got bored of the drama and worrying her parents. I just feel misunderstood, she'd often say or something similarly retarded.

Kevin our drummer has diagnosed bipolar and smokes weed heavily to deal with his own mood-swings, none of which are comparable to Laurene's daily spits. A gangly and acne-scarred boy.

Joshua is an emo of the side-fringe hair-flip variety, he plays guitar.

Carter plays base, a morbidly obese shaggy-haired loser. He's got depression, or so he thinks. He's a self-proclaimed incel.

Inceldom is a popular topic of discussion when we get philosophical. Humans are animals hard-wired by their own evolution. The top eighty-percent of women go for the top twenty-percent of men, in terms of attractiveness. This leads to a societal imbalance, a lot of lonely, angry and horny men. Seeing that I'm gay and extremely attractive and get plenty of attention, it doesn't apply to me. I'm only interested in it because the talk leads to discussion on school shooters, Elliot Rodger and other murderers who work under the banner of the involuntary celibate movement.

When we're not discussing nihilism or the inherent psychopathic nature of human-animals, hidden beneath the pretenses of a lawful society. When we're not discussing blatant corruption and failure of public systems, or the sexual predatory instincts of people, we talk about how we'd go about organizing our own school shooting. Who we'd like to kill first and how we'd make bombs to blow up which building. Who'd be responsible for scaring the animal herds out the front exit and who'd be waiting there to gun them all down. I'd smoke and slouch, staring up at cloudy tendrils, dreaming of standing before the fields of bodies and blood like an awed kid witnessing snow for the first time. Lip quirking as I took another drag.

"Spacing out again, Jake?" Laurene taunted.

"He does that a lot." Kevin chimed in.

I lowered the keyboard onto its stand, Laurene leaned over and stuck her finger through my shirtsleeve "Nice hole."

I slapped her hand away, started playing a few keys absentmindedly before looking up.

"How's songwriting going?" I watched them all give lazy shrugs. "I'm working on something."

"Oh yeah? Show us what you got."

"It's not finished yet." I lowered my eyes and played a few more keys. "I'll show you when it's finished."

"You need inspiration to write songs..." Kevin started rummaging through his bag for cigarettes. "We're all fucking sad nihilists. Nothing sad is catchy."

"Could write about childhood... childhood is the only pure thing." Carter murmured.

I pressed a key and froze with my thoughts. Love was an inspiration for artistic creation.

It was hard to capture my feelings on paper when I tried to write, and it humiliated me. I found it deeply humiliating. The love of my life had forced me to experience every emotion on the human spectrum. And to its greatest intensity. Like a swing-set my feelings for him fluctuated between two extremes within a matter of days, and sometimes hours. And so they did again.

Just yesterday morning I'd been daydreaming about tricking him to come over to my apartment so I could strangle him to death and hide the body. Now I contemplated him and felt nothing but warmth. Not just warmth but adoration. Not just adoration but worship. From the crown of my head to the soles of my feet I felt electrified and filled to the brim with loving thoughts. I wanted to take care of him entirely, I wanted to do things for him, whatever he liked. I daydreamed about him forgetting his lunch, and somehow being able to give him mine without him noticing. Me going hungry while he eats and is satisfied. You are absolutely perfect. I love you, I worship you. You know I do.

"Earth to Jake." Laurene stood from the plastic chairs and waved a hand in front of my face.

"What?" I snapped.

"That cheerleader bitch Cassie, or Caley or whatever, she says we can come to her beach party if we bring stuff for everyone. Drug stuff."

"Who cares about her stupid party?"

"She's got this back patio with oil torches, Survival Island style. I said she has to let us perform, could be good exposure."

"You want us to embarrass ourselves in front of the popular kids?"

Laurene's face burned red, an indication that I'd said the wrong thing. The others tensed, we might be about to witness one of her famous eruptions.

"You will play in the band next weekend if you want any clout or buzz this Summer break!" She jumped to her feet and my jaw clenched at the threat. Turning away she kicked a chair with her combat boot and it cartwheeled across the room. She stormed to the exit and turned to us "I've had enough of you losers for one morning!" before slamming it behind her.

The windows shook. Joshua turned to me "What have you got to piss her off for man? Now she's going to be a total pain in the ass all day."

I was indifferent and stared across the room while playing random keys again, trying to make them match the melody in my heartbeat. The organ jumping, trying to jump out and travel to the one who stole the key to it.

I daydreamed about that time in class when he was sitting in the row ahead of me, and someone called to him from the back and he turned. Upon looking at his face I saw every single imperfection glaring back at me, in that moment he looked the ugliest that I'd ever seen him, and all I could feel was intense, soul-wrenching love.

You're the only thing on this world that shines. You're the only thing that makes me feel anything at all. I tried to bring the keys together into some semblance of rhythm.