Page 8 of Homecoming: The Devil's Society

Birthright, generational, savingthemfor tomorrow?

I have gone from one hell to another. But in this hell, it appears we may be the ones in control.

Eis on edge. He hasn’t slept.

He is acting like a drug addict going through withdrawals, but knowing his next hit is only hours away, there is an added intensity to his insanity.

I still don’t completely understand everything. His family is deeply involved in something bigger than my brain can comprehend at the moment.

Wandering around the house, I find myself in the guest wing as my hand mindlessly plays with my black leather collar decorated with rose gold accents which encompasses his vial of blood, his soul, in the center.

Passing the secure door, I pause. Turning slowly I face it, placing my hand on the door, and a chill runs up my spine. It doesn’t make sense.

E is still in the backyard.

He has been out there since before I woke up. When making my morning coffee, I watched him through the massive back windows. Sitting on the patio furniture, his back to me, spinning his bat mindlessly next to him on the patio stones with his tattooed fingers.

The clouds were overcast, his breath floated in the air, and it made me wonder, how the fuck am I supposed to get used to this weather?

As I stood and watched him from the kitchen island, he threw his head back at one point and yelled into the morning sky. It’s possible he felt me watching. But I doubt it. At that moment, he was the most vulnerable I had ever seen. This is completely out of character for him. The restraint he is showing is mind-blowing, the fact that he hasn’t just saidfuck itand gone out to satisfy his cravings shows that deep down, even if he can’t express it or properly articulate it, he does have some self-restraint against the voices, the demons that whisperkill, kill, kill.

It’s midday, and he still hasn’t come in.

I’ve gotten ready in a pair of oversized sweats and a hoodie. I know we have to go to his dad’s before this evening begins. Even when dressed warmly, the chill from touching the door lingers up my spine.

As I remove my hand, I take a deep breath in and decide I have to get him. I need to help keep his mind busy. Turning around, the eerie feeling remains, while a familiar one is added.

Heis here.

My eyes look to the end of the long hall, and E is looking back at me from through the large window. Half of his tattooed faceis covered with a shadow, his expression stone. Resting over his shoulder is his wooden bat. His outfit matches mine, all black. With a slight tilt of his head, I know, he tells me it’s time to go.

My feet pad across the hardwood as I find my shoes by the front entrance. Quickly, I slide them on and rush out the front door. I am eager to learn more.

A cool breeze tickles my cheeks. My lungs cough, adjusting to the dry, cool air.

Rubbing my hands together, my eyes wander the property, looking for him.

Where did he go?

Stepping down the large step, I shove my hands in my pockets and begin walking up the long stone driveway. It’s unlikely he has made it this far, but I don’t know where else to go. My mind races, I still feel connected to him like on that very first day while I was working at the bar, but I also feel very uneasy. He is isolating. And I don’t know how to fucking help him.

Perhaps the feeling of being useless is what is driving it. I am uncomfortable because I am unable to help him, when it’s all I want to be able to do. It hurts my soul knowing he is hurting. He would end anyone and anything in his path to help me. And I am here, walking up a driveway racking my goddamn brain, trying not to feel bad when this isn’t about me.

Spiraling.

Tiny pebbles crack under my feet as I continue to walk up the driveway.

I feelhim.

A loud whistle behind me catches my attention, causing me to stop in my tracks. Turning my head, his beautiful eyes catch my attention first. The blue with the specks of brown thrive here. They were never this vibrant in North Carolina. This is where he is meant to be.

Smiling at the sight before me, E is driving a black-on-black golf cart in my direction .

“We aren’t walking,” is all he says as he stops next to me.

Once I am seated next to him, his foot presses down on the gas. His bat rests between us and rolls slightly at the acceleration. His fingers are holding the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white, as he tries to fight the twitching, the anxiety. His breathing is heavy.

Reaching my hand out, I place it on his thigh. His muscles contract under my soft touch while his teeth grind, my poor sweet boy.

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