When I was ten years old, my family packed up our life and moved to another state. The house was different. The streets were different. The air was too thin. At my new school, I had no friends, and being a strange kid with strange interests did not help matters. That first year, I learned an important distinction the hard way. Some kids wanted a friend. Others just wanted a victim.

  There was one group I tried to join. They laughed with me and played for a while, long enough for hope to take root. Then they found sticks on the ground. The game changed. They started swinging. Their ideas of fun stung me. They ignored my pleas of “Stop!” and “Don’t do that!” so I ran.

  One of the girls chased me.

  I ducked inside, supposing the walls of the gymnasium might be my refuge. She followed, laughing, the stick snapping against my arms and back.

  Desperate, I fled to the boys’ bathroom, the one place I thought she would not go.

  I was wrong.

  She came in after me and kept hitting me as I backed into a stall. I curled up, hands over my head, trying to make myself smaller, trying to understand why someone would find joy in this. With every strike, fear curdled into something hotter. Something sharp.

  When I could not take it anymore, I caught the stick, yanked it from her hands, and struck back.

  That was when the janitor walked in. All he saw was a boy hitting a girl.

  The school counselor scolded me for choosing violence and sent me home, where I was belittled for another hour or so more.

  Years later, on the bus to junior high, there was an older boy who liked to sit in front of me. He was twice my size, and would turn around, reach over the seat, and start punching. For some reason, he thought this was the funniest thing in the world. I cried out for help, but none came. Maybe the bus was too loud. Maybe no one cared to hear.

  On the third day of this, something in me snapped. I rose up and fought back. I beat him with both fists, screaming death threats soaked in profanity. Every blow brought a sick, electric satisfaction. Vengeance wielded the tension in my knuckles.

  The bus screeched to a halt. The driver had seen me in the mirror.

  Once again, I was in trouble. But my father’s reaction caught me by surprise. He smiled. He patted my back and congratulated me for finishing a fight. One of the few times he seemed proud. Two weeks later he shouted at me for correcting him about a movie quote.

  It never stopped, though. The pattern held. Someone sadistic would find me, corner me, and the torture would begin. What hurt most was not the cruelty, but the silence of those who were supposed to stop it. When I defended myself, I was punished. When I suffered quietly, I was corrected for failing to endure it properly.

  I tell you this so you understand why authority figures filled me with dread. For all I’d known, they were not there to protect the innocent. They were there to keep victims in line. They did not punish the guilty. They avenged them.

  Or maybe it had nothing to do with guilt or innocence at all. Maybe it was just me. Maybe I was the problem. Often I could not decide if I needed to blame the world or myself, I just knew everything felt wrong.

  I loved mythology, cosmology, and the stories of religion. They carried weight and scale that science fiction never quite matched. They felt true in a way that did not need proof. Stories of flawed heroes, tyrannical kings, prisoners who must appease their captors, and the overlooked ones rising to do great things.

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  Was I destined to become a warrior like Hercules or King David? Perhaps a tragic prophet like Tiresias or Nehemiah?

  Or perhaps I was the monster trapped beneath the earth.

  My father tormented me. My mother said nothing, so I assumed she approved. The other children beat me, mocked me, and stole from me. The adults seemed to exist only to ensure the abuse continued without interruption.

  Trying to make sense of it all, I decided I must be evil. That there was something dark in me they could see and were trying to destroy before it spread. I identified with characters like Damian from The Omen. He did not choose to be the Son of the Devil. He was born wrong, and for that, people and animals tried to kill him before he ever did anything at all.

  The truth, as I saw it, was simple. Either I was evil or the world was. Whichever was true, I wanted it to end.

  That first year after the move, I thought about ending the world. I read every End Times story I could find, from Ragnarok and its endless winter to Revelation and the wrath of Christ. Something about the idea of a crucified man returning to destroy the world that rejected him reached me.

  Apocalypse fascinated me. I imagined how it might come to pass. On days when I believed I was good and the world was evil, I prayed for Christ to return and cleanse it. On days when I believed I was the evil one, I hoped J?rmungandr would crush the Earth in his coils and spare no one.

  Whether from self-righteousness or spite, I hated authority most of all. I followed their rules the best I could, not out of respect, but because I took comfort in the doom I believed awaited them.

  That is why the realization hit me so hard on the drive back to Lloyd’s ranch. I had just watched an authority figure rescue an innocent child from an abusive father.

  I was quiet the whole ride, was my custom. Lloyd played a Crosby, Stills, and Nash CD in the player. (When reception is spotty, you use outdated tech)

  The sheriff came to that girl’s rescue…

  The scene replayed itself over and over, refusing to make sense.

  Officer Swan was my dad’s best friend for years. Why could he not see?

  We hit a bump in the road that rattled the cab. The song skipped. Lloyd cursed and slapped the dashboard.

  He left no public bruises! The thought landed all at once. Bob was caught because he hurt his daughter where others could see. My father was smarter. More careful. And often, I surrendered so quickly that he settled for words instead. Mockery. Sudden storms of arbitrary rage.

  I had hidden so well that no one else could be blamed for not seeing.

  Silence.

  I embraced silence because I was afraid to speak. Any word could be twisted into evidence against me.

  Because that’s what they do, came Thorn’s voice.

  The truck creaked. The air felt hotter, as if another presence had joined us. I could feel him riding in the bed, unseen. I was hidden, and so was my tormentor.

  That’s why you ran, Thorn said. The world is full of warriors, and words are their weapons. They cut deeper than steel, sting worse than venom. Every betrayal is J?rmungandr tightening his coils.

  I rubbed the place where the bruises had been. The marks were gone. The pain remained.

  Haven’t you always known it all needed to burn down?

  The question struck like a spade hitting dry ground. Old hatred broke free.

  My chest tightened. Breath came in ragged gasps. The world smeared and softened, like bad graphics in a game losing resolution.

  I looked at the men in the truck.

  Derek glanced back and smiled, friendly and unaware. He could not see what was wrong with me.

  Lloyd glanced over. “Alex? You alright, buddy?”

  Derek looked at his father. “What do you mean?”

  “You blind, goober?” snapped Lloyd. “He’s gone white as a sheet.”

  Sweat streamed down my temples. My hands shook.

  “Alex?” said Lloyd. “Can you say anything?”

  I tried to speak. Broken sounds crawled out instead. The shapes of the men blurred. My head dipped. The light flickered.

  Lloyd cursed and yanked the wheel. Tires screamed. The world spun. “We gotta get him to a doctor NOW!”

  No! A doctor will identify me!

  I had waited too long to destroy my ID. That single mistake was about to unravel everything.