Page 1 of Gabriel's Salvation

Prologue

Every villain’s origin story has one thing in common:

A traumatic event that changed the character's life forever.

But I don’t have just one traumatic event – I have a lifetime of traumatic events. A loving mother who died when I was just a child, and a father who beat and abused me for most of my life. Then, to top it all off, the one good thing I had in my life, my younger brother, Nate, was snatched away from me when he dared to share our secret with the girl he loved. Only for her to open her big mouth and betray us both.

I’d resigned myself to a life of loneliness, heartache, and isolation. That is, until one day that all changed. She forced her way into my life and made me reevaluate everything I thought I knew about love, friendship, and past mistakes.

For the first time in my life, I was made to feel like the hero rather than the villain. She made me believe that maybe there was hope for me yet.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Perhaps I should start at the beginning, in a run down house, in the middle of nowhere.

Chapter One

Gabe

My phone rings from the kitchen, and I drag myself off the couch. Just as I reach for it, the annoying sound stops. Looking at the clock on the microwave, I see it’s barely 8 a.m. Who the fuck would be calling me at this time?! I don't have to wonder for long, though, as my brother's name lights up the screen.

“Hey Na-” I begin before I'm cut off by the annoying sound of singing.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you….” Shit, is today my birthday? Surely not, I think to myself while furrowing my brow. I scroll to the calendar app on my phone while the incessant singing continues, and sure enough, it’s my birthday. My 21st birthday to be exact. How the fuck did that happen? Maybe I should lay off the drinks a bit.

“Gabe, are you there?”

“Yeah, I'm here. Sorry. I was just getting dressed,” I mumble while clearing my throat, trying to get the roughness out of my voice so Nate won’t worry about me.

“So, what are you doing later? I know you said you've gotta work today, so ya can’t come here, but maybe I could get a flight over to see you? Spend Christmas together?" I can hear the pleading in his voice, and part of me would love nothing more than to accept his offer. Let him come here and finally spend some time surrounded by family. But what the fuck could I offer him here?

“Nah, I don't have time. John’s got me working nonstop. I try my best to sound cheery. “Have a good Christmas, though.” God, I hope he buys it. Last thing I need is for him to drop everything, catch a flight, and show up on my doorstep.

“Oh, okay,” Nate replies, sounding deflated. I'm such an ass. He just wants to spend time with me - I don’t know why. I can’t do this. I'm such an ass. He should just move on with his great, happy life and forget about me.

“Anyway, I'm at work, so I've gotta go. Speak soon, Nate.”

“Wait, don't,” Nate starts, but I disconnect the call.

I don't miss the way his voice is laced with hurt and disappointment, but he'd be even more hurt if I said yes and let him come here - back to the house of horrors. Our father may not live here anymore, but his ghost and the memories of him still haunt these halls.

No. Over there, he’s living the life of a rich kid. I bet he's got a stack of presents under the tree and a turkey roasting in the oven. Bet he’s probably going fucking caroling with the Jacksons or some other shit. Doing all that Christmas movie bullshit.

I look around the rundown shithole I live in — not a single Christmas decoration in sight. Nah, he doesn't need me; he's got his perfect life there. I'd just be holding him back.

I open the fridge to grab myself a beer, but it's bare. Fuck! Coffee will have to do.

I grab the milk and a mug from beside the sink, but as soon as I unscrew the lid, I gag as the sour smell assaults my nose. Resisting the urge to throw up, I quickly put the lid back on and throw the carton in the trash.

“Fuck,” I huff as I grab my bike keys. I throw on some shoes and a jacket with my joggers and make my way to the store.

“Merry Christmas, that will be $12 please,” the pimple-faced asshole at the till whines.

I throw my money down and snatch my beer, milk, and ready meal, not even bothering to give him eye contact.

Grabbing my phone from my pants pocket, I dial John’s number. As usual, he answers almost immediately.

“What is it, son?” Son?! The sound of that word alone makes bile rise up in my throat, reminding me of exactly whose ‘son’ I truly am.

“What have I said about calling me that?” I snap back.

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