My name is Kismet Holmes. I have never been inclined to meticulous self-structuring as perfect nor wanted to have a self-reflective monologue on the mundane occurrences of a teenager. Luckily for the collective sanity of those who might encounter someone like me, I find myself in a state of ended existence. I am dead. found on a frigid concrete driveway. A cold hardened stone-marbled driveway that a classic Subaru maybe a Toyota would park in, Stumbling upon a lifeless body in one's driveway would undoubtedly suck. I would know, I found one dead in my home.

With a crucial disclaimer in that precedes my narrative- I had a Family at one point. Not a picket fence and white dog family. I was no American, where notions of a perfect home and life are entwined with an imbalance between the rich and poor almost as bad as an old person's calorie intake that they complain about every day in an aged care facility. Besides the point, I lived on a street, bordered by a barbed fence doubling as a DIY passion project due to its ability to do nothing other than paint the house in the same light it stood in. If I was ever queried about my Mother's employment would I be able to give you a formulated response? Maybe, if she was awake for more than 20 minutes. Standing up in front of classmates on a show and tell parent day was almost an unavoidable task; "My father is dead, murdered." Nearly every year, I had every teacher book me into a school counselor profiling. The cherry on top; is my sister. kidnapped as a last-stitch effort by those who removed my father, a cruel joke. I was never a vengeful person, revenge was never my gismo. I only ever wanted answers. Answers that were not handed if I said please and thank you.

6 months after her kidnapping

6:04 pm: Monday

I lay entranced by a blanket of stars slowly faded by a creeping orange.

A Perplexed figure, adorned with a slightly unkempt stubble. he liked to call it a stubble. My trust, a rare currency, was sparingly extended to the nurses who assisted in my birth, never to a man who bore the title of my mother's dealer. An aid to addiction? maybe merely a relationship solely established through obligation. He peers over the barbed gate, prompting me to push myself from the ground, as I stand I ignore the tangible chills, my hands push the gate ajar to allow him in. His eyes show a cold demeanor which seems to possess an unsettling darkness, glazed with a sense of urgency. I would only ever describe his demeanor as similar to an anxious parent outside a local warehouse store on Black Friday from the 90% off flat-screen TV with blue ray and ultra color expansion. I let him in.

Beat.

The formidable figure of Ranch stands towering before me, his ragged clothes and oil-stained jeans tell the tales of hard labor, although I wouldn't refer to drug dealing as a hard task. Every crease and fray within his presented attire speaks volumes in a moment where silence is merely exchanged. Amidst the grime and somewhat grit that intised his world presenting his rough exterior, his eyes tell a different story. If there was one trait I admired but also disliked about Ranch, it was his eyes. Drawing, to one's attention shards of orange, gold, and brown paint, a contradiction to the roughness of his appearance, but kindred eyes, warm and toasted flickered as they looked at me.

"Where's that woman?"

His voice holds a sense of urgency; and panic.

"Who? There's a lot of women around. Every woman in the compound or specifically the women in this house?"

His fingers fastened onto an object hidden in the pocket of his denim-creased jeans. The weight of his anger hangs and lingers in the air. The thick tension almost yearned an ominous presence of a gun concealed within the confines of the pocket. Years of his only what I would describe as medical work now fastened around a cold metal weapon. The presence of the gun yet spoken off sends an almost gut-wrenching chill, the type you get when something from your online cart becomes sold out. no bullet is fired. Not yet. However, the implication looms heavily in the uncomfortable silence.

"Don't play with me kismet, your damn mother!"

He trembled, fidgeting with the firearm. Was it a manifestation of guilt? Maybe.

"Her room. Where is she kismet?"

"She owns the house, so every room is her room, no?"

"What are you playing at kid? I have a fucking gun d-do you see it."

A swift and calculated movement finds Ranch withdrawing the gun from his pocket. The Ominous clock of metal echoing in the ten.

"Don't you have deals to make or something ranch-"

There a glint in his eye a rather scary one.

"No, you know why?.. That bitch of a mother s-sold me out. sent the feds into one of my stashes. you think that's funny. HUH? YOU THINK IT'S FUNNY."

Trigger happy. His expression changed to almost sadistic. If anything, I wouldn't be in the slightest surprised if he began a rampage. My memorial would gain somewhat of a notice; maybe even televised. 'This just in 17-year-old girl found dead-admit starting a rampage. Next up: is your Christmas ham looking off? Here's how to fix that with a world-renowned chef coming right up after this 20-minute commercial break, each advertisement costing more than your kidney!' Yet I find myself angry. Nothing surrounding this is funny. If anything, I'd call it all unfair.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

"I think my mother is brain-dead. Practically. You went through my gate to my house to fight a woman stuck in a god-stupid chair because of you!..... because of you Ranch! You wanted to parade around the compound with your stupid fucking gun. Call yourself one of them and say it all for Familia; you wouldn't know what that is if you even wished for it-"

Beat.

A bolt. A searing bolt of pain struck across the side of my face. A sudden assault that leaves my ear ringing, my mind at a loss whilst my vision momentarily blurs. He rushes, his shoulder knocking me as he opens the door. I stand stagnant until I chase after him, too late. A gun pointing at a surprisingly sobered-up mother; well to as much as she can be. His eyes dart at me, the gun-waving between us holding us hostage in our own home, the stained wallpaper probably soon to be stained with my blood.

A sudden rush of movement knocked my shoulder and barrels past me. Ranch throws open the door, only echoing a resounding thud. For almost a second, a moment, I stood frozen, glued to the spot. The urge of adrenaline sends me to rush after him. Too late; the scene in front of my own eyes allows me to be stuck once again.

My Mother sits in a chair surprisingly as sober as she gets, her eyes not, residing a single drop of fear which stands in contrast to Ranch his trembling haze commands him as he holds a gun, the atmosphere in the room shifts to a place it hasn't been since the last time death had met us. Danger impends as the gun wavers between me and the empty shell of a mother.

You, y-you sold me out!?"

His face is grim, anger resides in him.

My feet pivot to leave the room. a simple escape plan.

"Don't you leave?"

His hand quivers, shifting the target of his gun. I have watched shows depicting hostage situations. Sometimes, if you were fortunate, the victims' families would stand outside hosting vigils praying to a high figure for their safety. Was I now compelled to do that? My mother barely moves or flinches, in a state of almost unbroken stillness, she exhibits minimal reaction. Perhaps it is a combination, some would say, a consequence of a lucid substance or her unwavering gray personality.

"You sold yourself out the minute you let them kill my husband."

Spit reaches Ranch's shoe, my mother's gesture of complete disgust and disdain for him. Almost shocking as her ability to still be coherent is displayed, whilst the revelation that Ranch, the man who stood before me, bears some responsibility for the killing of my father.

Ranch's presence lingers ominously over us. A spatter of spit lands on his shoe- a display of my own mother's complete hatred and disdain for him. In an almost defiant gesture and sentence, she manages to display a single drop of emotion and coherency. The moment leaves me almost reeling, the revelation that the man standing in front of me held responsibility for my father's death. the single dagger in which blaming myself for letting him into the house in the first place.

"Shut up!"

His hand quivered on the trigger as he pointed it to her.

"I do not hold your anger against you, I hope one day to see your shrine on these compound walls."

His hand extends towards my mother's head, a peculiar mix of anguish and reverence. His posture is bowed as if he held some remorse for his actions. Eyes tightly clenched in an almost touching display of inner torment that almost had a part of me hoping he would walk out and leave the room. But he didn't. His knees weigh him down with his demons. I am reminded of his display of revenge, the anger in which the simple action of revenge takes. However, I am not like him. I cannot watch in anger plotting my revenge, I believe in Karma, which in most times is instant.

Beat.

The dim light room allows my gaze to drift towards a cabinet behind me. The second drawer contents nestled beneath a photo of Mother Mary. Ironic. I reach for the drawer, fingers brushing against cool metal. An act of salvation? revenge? no.

Beat.

An outpour is soaked by the carpet.

"I didn't do this for you."

I didn't do it for anyone. however, I now needed to flee in a gone-girl type of way.

My hand delved into his pockets, fumbling with his pocket, fingers amidst a clipped collective of stained paper. Each name written, scrawled in hurried handwriting, each one more unfamiliar than the last. Amidst the chaotic disarray of an ID and a murder scene, the killer? Seemingly me. The urgency to leave grips me. Feet tracing back over the barbed fence, a car. Can I drive? A Lingering fear always forced me, well compelled me to answer no. But now, I needed to drive. The gate inches open almost at a sluggish pace, raveling an opened door, keys still intact. Good. Right? I hoped so. The back seat, a hoodie and cap; my makeshift armor to keep myself low. Keep your head down. Sorting through, Cards, scratchy, "Simply the best; 2012's Top-Centered Charts." Would not take him as a Rihanna fan. A map, meticulously labeled, stares back at me. Can I read a map? Maybe if I was a 19th-century Pilgrim living in an unestablished land. Perhaps. It would be a complete lie, a façade to paint myself as a hero, inform my side as if I had some redemption arch before my death. Maybe I did not proceed in vain. I was no exemplar. My actions are not painted in the hues of vigilante heroism but for my only primary goal at the time. Karma.

"You have the potential makings of a captivating storyteller!"

I snap back into reality, finding myself and the pale boy standing beside me. Tall reeds of grass sway gently between my legs and feet, the harrowing sun casting a glow over both of us.

"Do you ever feel empathy?" I question him.

"Am I meant to?"

I shoot him a glare. Touché.

"You need to make it sappier, something golden buzzer worthy."

"My story was not about tear-jerking clickbait. I killed someone."

he smirks. at this response.

"It could be."

"It wasn't."

Tension lingers. In some way, he looked at me, almost giving a reassuring look of understanding.

"You need a new name."

"What?"

His almost multicolored eyes meet mine, and he raises his hand. The wind picks up, swiveling, swirling around us until it becomes nothing more than an indistinct blur. Suddenly, we're in an alleyway. Darkened, a decorative trash can compliments the meaningless graffiti, perhaps new age art. Dim lights loom casting shadows on the dirt and moss-covered ground. He peers, leaning forward, getting closer, brushing away the disheveled strands of my hair.

"Kismet Holmes is dead. People can't comprehend resurrections; it's an out-of-reach concept."

"I thought different timelines existed."

"they do."

"So why change my name?"

The boy huffs, rolling his eyes.

"You have to."

"You suggest?".

I look at him perplexed. The boy steps closer and smiles.

"Invada."