January 5, 1980

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Midnight

Someone once told me that Love is Friendship on Fire.

Well, if love is friendship on fire, then hatred is love, but fueled by vengeance.

Trent closed the front door of the Sharif Manor quietly behind him, his bloodstained hands, and bloodstained tuxedo still wet with her fresh life... or lack of it.

He stepped into the softly lit driveway, and held up his hand, opening his fingers carefully to peer into the blue eyes he carved from her head.

For all of the pain he put her through before he sent her into the void, it was nothing compared to the pain he suffered when she cast him aside for Jonathan Walker.

Trent carefully placed her eyes into the pockets of his white tuxedo, and continued down the driveway, past the gates, and into the street.

He missed her - he missed her already - and felt a wound in his heart knowing he would never again see her smile, or hear her beautiful voice... but action had consequence, and no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many chances he gave her, there could be no mercy for anyone who betrayed him as she did.

He continued down the street on Gallows Road on foot, past the old abandoned houses, staring momentarily at the dark, dirt caked windows of the old Ebora House. He felt a chill run down his back, and shook his head, confident in the knowledge that if such a thing as ghosts, phantoms, or unfriendly spirits did exist, they only come when it rains.

It was a common turn of phrase in Driftwood meant to both frighten, and comfort children to sleep.

Trent continued to the point where Gallows Road crossed Providence Lane, and turned left, continuing up the incline - it was not much of a climb, but noticeable - and all the way to the woods where he left the street, and the sidewalk to the unbeaten path.

Unbeaten to anyone unfamiliar with the woodlands.

Trent stared the wary, pale barn owl in its black eyes as he pushed on, ignoring its shrill call as he passed. Trent followed the same trees as countless times before, following the messy trail of leaves only a short time before he walked with Nadjia.

Her eyes were immediately heavy in his pocket.

All she had to do was love him.

That self-entitled idiot Walker took her for granted, and only when he feared losing her did he step up and stake a claim. He stole the opportunity out from beneath him, dazzling her with promises no man could keep very long.

No man, but he - and only he - for a prize like Nadjia.

Jonathan Walker took what was rightfully his, and stole her love in a single night's deceptions... otherwise why else would she follow such an arrogant, materialistic and ignorant louse?

When Jonathan found the cost of his actions, he would discover Nadjia's fate was more his fault, than Trent's. Perhaps Trent drove the knife, but the ass would realize he was the fault that killed her.

Jonathan was Nadjia's murderer, and Trent was only the tool for task.

He arrived at the MacAllen ruins, and pulled Nadjia's eyes from his pocket, careful to remove the bloodstained lint from them.

He sat on the old floorboards of the remarkably well preserved ruins, the shell of a once beautiful estate now a haven for he, and all that remained of the one he loved. He felt around the floorboards until he found the scar he etched into them, the word spite, and placed her eyes on them.

"Can you see me? Can you see why I did what had to be done?" His voice was calm, but his eyes were brimming. The skies we're dark tonight, void of moonlight, and the woods were misty, a low laying fog rolling over the mulchy earth.

Silence answered Trent, and in the distance he heard an faint owl call into the night.

Things were changing in Driftwood.

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