Redheads are Soulless Read online

  Redheads are Soulless

  Heather M. White

  Copyright © 2012 Heather M White.

  This publication is protected under the US Copyright Act of 1976 and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws, and all rights are reserved, including resale rights: you are not allowed to give or sell this book to anyone else. Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if we use one of these terms. The names and events in this novel are fictional and not based on anything else, fictional or no-fictional.

  Cover Design by: Heather @ SupaGurl Books

  More information can be found at the author’s website:

  http://heatherstiara.blogspot.com

  As always, first and foremost, I want to thank my awesome husband for his support through this whole journey. Without him, NONE of this would be possible!!! I love you, always!

  Tess from My Pathway to Books – you’re the little sister I never had! Thank you for your support while writing this book, and for listening to my crazy plot ideas! And for just putting up with my crazy in general!

  Heather at SupaGurl Books… WOW, what else can I say! Thank you for your amazing cover design and for all your help with promoting this book! (as well as all of my other books). YOU ROCK!

  There are SO MANY others that I have met along this journey, and I love you all!!! Thank you for supporting me, and for reading my books!

  Check out my other books:

  The Destiny Saga:

  When Destiny Knocks – book 1

  When Destiny Strikes – book 2

  The Vampire Hunter Series:

  My Fairytale Life – book 1

  Preface

  For me, dying seems like an easy way out. I only wish that death would have come sooner, before I met him, before he changed my life. It almost seems unfair that I have to leave him now, just when I found my place in the world.

  I fought to stay alive. I fought for him. As reality slowly slipped away from my grasp, I tried hard to hold on. I couldn’t leave. Not now – not yet anyway.

  I had to see his face one more time.

  I had to say goodbye.

  One

  Typical Friday Night

  Friday nights are always predictable for me. They have been the same for me since I was ten years old, the night my father died.

  I remember everything about that night. It was storming, and my parents were fighting. They never fought, ever. They were so in love. I was scared to hear them yelling at each other. I didn’t want them to get divorced.

  I locked myself in my bedroom, but the paper thin walls didn’t muffle the sounds of their screaming.

  Every time the thunder rumbled, they’d scream louder.

  Every time they screamed louder, I would shake harder.

  I couldn’t take it anymore… I just wanted them to stop fighting.

  I walked into the living room where my parents were arguing. They didn’t even notice I was out of bed, or that I had walked into the room.

  “Please stop,” I cried.

  They didn’t hear me. They just kept arguing, and screaming. My father was cursing at my mom. I had never heard him say a bad word before. For a moment, I was scared for my life. And that’s when I saw it. My dad had a knife in his hand.

  His hand went up. I knew he was going to stab my mom in the chest. I don’t know how, but I could feel it. I had to stop him.

  “NO!” I screamed. I had never been more afraid in my life. Suddenly, he dropped the knife so quickly it was as if the knife was on fire. That’s when he looked over at me.

  I was startled to see that his eyes were bright red instead of their natural color of brown. “What did you do?” He yelled at me. He put his hands on my shoulders and started to shake me. “You little monster, what did you do?”

  I cried uncontrollably. “Daddy, please stop. You’re hurting me,” I screamed at him. He didn’t stop. I just wanted him to stop.

  I wanted my dad back.

  This man was not my dad, or at least not the dad that I knew.

  Finally, my mom intervened.

  “Stop it! You’re hurting her,” she yelled at him. When I looked up I saw that she held a gun with both hands, she too was shaking uncontrollably. “What did you do with my husband?”

  With his body facing me, he twisted his head all the way around to look at my mom. I could hear the bones in his neck cracking as his head turned around 180 degrees.

  “He’s not coming back,” he said laughing.

  His voice… There was something definitely wrong with his voice. It sounded… bitter. And my dad was not a bitter person.

  The words made me mad. I had never been so furious.

  My dad, or the person who looked like my dad, moved his hands away from my shoulders immediately, and let out a scream.

  I looked down at my skin. Steam was literally coming off of me. I held out my hand and touched his face. When I did, he screamed louder. Only the voice didn’t belong to my dad.

  “I will be back for you,” the angry voice warned me.

  Then, my dad’s eyes turned back to their natural color of brown before his lifeless body fell to the ground. That’s it, he just dropped dead.

  Nobody knows the truth about that night, except for my mom and me. I try to block it from my memory, but every Friday night I am reminded of my past.

  My mom has never been the same. Who could be, really? But she didn’t even try. It’s like she gave up on life. Not even I was enough reason for her to keep going. I tried not to be bitter, but at times, it was impossible.

  I lay on my bed, staring at my phone. It would ring, and soon. It always rang around this time.

  11:59.

  Ring. Ring.

  When I answer, I simply say, “I’ll be right there.” I hung up my phone and left the comfort of my tiny bedroom.

  I knew exactly where my mom was. It’s where she always was, every Friday night – Billie’s Honky Tonk Bar. She would be waiting on the same stool she always sat at. Always throwing herself on every guy that walked by.

  I got in my 1960’s model Ford truck, and I shut the door carefully. My door was hanging on by its last hinges. It was only a matter of time before the darn thing fell off. And I don’t need one more reason for people to make fun of me.

  People always make fun of me.

  They make fun of my old, slowly rusting, pickup. The make fun of my alcoholic mother. They make fun of the clothes that I buy at yard sales. They all think I’m a freak.

  And maybe they are right… Maybe I am a freak.

  Sofia Black – the girl with the dead dad, and the crazy mom. There is no escaping reality. This is my reality. I live with it, and I deal with it – not because I want to, but because I have to.

  I turned right, into the bar. I took a deep breath to calm my shaky nerves before stepping inside. As frequently as I picked her sorry butt up, it never got any less embarrassing.

  Yep, there was my mom. She had her hands on Mr. Franks, my geometry teacher. He tried pushing her away, but she wouldn’t budge. My face flushed with embarrassment.

  “I’m so sorry,” I apologized to him as I pulled my mom’s fingers off him.

  “Sofie, we were jus’ havin’ fun,” my mom’s words was slurred as if her tongue were swollen. The scent of alcohol was strong on her breath. I wanted to say something mean to her, but it wouldn’t do any good – she wouldn’t remember anything I said tomorrow.

  Mr. Franks cleared his throat. “See you at school,” he said awkwardly before walking away.

  School – awe yes. Where he always gives me
sympathetic looks. He’s seen me in here every Friday night since I was 10, always picking up my drunken mom. It seems as though my mom isn’t the only one with a drinking problem in this town.

  All my teachers know about my mom. Because of it, they treat me differently than the other students. They don’t treat me like a freak, but they do treat me like a porcelain doll rather than a person. They think I’m going to break because I’ve had a couple of bad things happen to me in my life. Well, guess what, I’m a lot tougher than they think. I’m not made of glass, and I’m not going to break… Not today anyway.

  “Come on, Mom,” I said as I helped her up from the bar stool. “It’s time to go home now.”

  “Awe, but I don’t wanna go,” she whined.

  As we walked out of the pub, she put all of her weight on me. I was used to it. I was strong enough to support us both physically. Emotionally supporting us is what I had problems with.

  I thought back to the 10 year old me. The one who got her first phone call at midnight saying her mom was drunk and couldn’t drive home. That night, I walked the 4 blocks to the bar alone.

  Since I was only 10 at the time, I had help carrying my passed out mother to the car. I was scared. I didn’t want her to die like my dad. The bartender assured me she would be fine after she slept it off.

  That night was my first experience at driving. I had no clue what I was doing, and I could barely reach the pedals. By some miracle, we made it home safely, but only after knocking down Mr. Dunn’s mailbox. Crazy old man still looks at me cautiously every time I drive by.

  Both my mom and I slept in the car that night. Since then, my mom’s alcohol tolerance has gotten significantly higher, and much to my dismay, she hardly ever passed out anymore. I missed those peaceful nights.

  “Why d’ya always gotta ruin all my fun?” Even through her slurred voice, her southern accent was still strong. Despite living in Peckville, Alabama my whole life, I had thankfully never picked up the accent.

  “I didn’t ruin your fun, Mom. Billie did. He called me to come pick you up,” I answered her, annoyance strong in my voice. I strapped her seatbelt on, she complained, but at least she didn’t try to take it off like she normally did.

  I walked around to the driver’s side and got in. I put on my seat belt and looked over at my mom. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she was pouting.

  So it was going to be one of those nights, where she pretended to be mad at me. I sighed and pulled out of the parking lot.

  We passed Sonic on our way home. Sitting on the outside patio, I saw some kids from my school all laughing and having a good time. I envied them. While they were all enjoying their night, I was praying for the strength to make it through another Friday night. The worst part of the whole thing is that I know I will be doing the same thing again tomorrow night.

  I sighed, and pulled into the driveway of our tiny house. It wasn’t much, but it was a home, my home. If you didn’t know better, you would think that my house was condemned. The outside looked as though nobody has been inside for ages. The white paint job had slowly worn over the years, and there was hardly any paint left at all, just rotting wood. The few shutters that were left on the house were barely holding on, and the termites were slowly eating away at the foundation.

  Before I could get around to the passenger side of the truck, my mom had already opened the door and tumbled out. She cursed as she fell onto the gravel driveway. I helped her up, and inspected the damage. There were a couple of cuts on her hands and knees, but nothing serious.

  “Let’s get you inside, and I’ll clean you up,” I suggested.

  She nodded her head in agreement. I helped her walk to the recliner and sat her down. I quickly ran to the bathroom, and grabbed some bandages, and a wet wash rag. Once I cleaned up the cuts, she relaxed back in her chair. I could see she was starting to sober up a little.

  “You’re such a good girl, Sof,” she said as she started to fall asleep.

  “I know, Mom. You get some sleep, ok?”

  “Ok,” she said right before a snore escaped her throat.

  Just a typical Friday night.

  Two

  Jason Morgan

  Monday mornings are always bittersweet for me.

  They are good because I have a whole 5 days before my mom will be hitting the bar again. They are bad because it means I have to go back to school, which means lots of taunting from the other students. You would think that since we are seniors in high school they would be more mature and nicer. Nope, if anything, they only got more immature and crueler with time. One thing was certain – their words were just as hurtful now as they had been seven years ago. Only now, I don’t cry in front of them. I put on a brave face and pretend to ignore them. In all reality, it feels like they are taking a knife to my insides. Sometimes, I think a knife would hurt less.

  I looked in the mirror one last time before heading to school. I was very disappointed at the girl looking back at me.

  I kept my unruly, curly, red hair pulled into a ponytail, frizzy curls cascaded down my back. I almost like my hair… almost. My dark brown eyes, as always, were filled with sadness and hurt. And lastly, my clothes – I wore my favorite purple sundress. I wore it a lot, simply because I didn’t own a lot of clothes, but never-the-less, it was my favorite. And I wore cheap dollar store flip flops.

  I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. 7:55 Am. Time to go.

  I live exactly 4 minutes from the school. If I leave at this time, that gives me 1 minute to park and get to class. It is always just enough time. I figure, why set myself up for torture first thing? Arriving just on time is what I have done for years. It’s just better this way.

  Once I got to school, I slipped into my desk just in time for the bell to ring. Mr. Franks gave me a knowing nod, and then began the lesson.

  My dull, predicting, never-changing life…

  Something hit me from the right.

  I looked down at a crumpled up piece of paper on the floor beside my desk. Todd, the star quarterback, gave me a wink. I rolled my eyes at him.

  I knew that I shouldn’t read the note. I knew it would be hurtful, but I opened it anyway.

  Heard your mom’s easy, just wanted to see if it ran in the family. You’re ugly, but I’m pretty desperate. – Todd

  The note didn’t make me angry, just really sad. I tried to play it off as anger. Piss off, I wrote back. I sent the note flying at his head.

  Mr. Franks saw, but he chose to ignore it. Teachers always give me breaks. It’s not like it would matter. My mom wouldn’t care if I did get in trouble.

  Before Todd even got the note, I turned my attention back to the lesson.

  School is about the only thing I do have going for me. Despite the lack of parental guidance, I have a 4.0 average. I am desperate to get out of this town, and away from my mom. I love her, but I can’t stand to be with her anymore. I will go to whatever college accepts me, hopefully in Portland, Maine, and I will never look back at my crappy life.

  Just then, the classroom door opened and in walked a student I have never seen before. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. Something about this guy captured my attention. It was like my eyes were glued to him.

  He walked to the front of the class with pride and dignity. His hair was black, but not in a gothic, I hate my life, way. More like a, I’m a rock star, kind of way. His bangs swept to the side, and normally I’m not into that, but it looked good on him. He was tall, towering at least a foot over Mr. Franks. His tight, black hoodie clung to his abdomen, and it was hard not to stare at his rock hard muscles. He wasn’t big like a football player, but something told me nobody would want to mess with him.

  His eyes met mine for a second, and the hair on my arms stood up. His eyes were solid black. But then, something unexplainable happened… they turned to a golden brown color. I blinked a few times. My eyes must be playing tricks on me.

  He winked at me, and I was finally able to look away. I was su
re my face was as bright as my red hair.

  I looked up again once I heard Mr. Franks voice. “Everybody, this is Jason Morgan. He has just transferred here from California.” He pointed to the empty seat beside me. “Just take a seat in the back, please.”

  My heart sped up about a hundred beats a minute.

  He would be sitting by me.

  Of course he would, that is the only empty desk in the class. Nobody else wants to sit by me.

  On his way back to the seat, I could see people were giving him sympathetic looks. Poor guy, having to sit by her, I hope he doesn’t get her herpes, I could hear them whisper.

  I looked down at my textbook, ignoring the whispers, as Jason took a seat beside me. I could feel his eyes on me. I glanced up for a moment. Sure enough, he was looking right at me.

  “I’m Jason,” he introduced himself in a whisper.

  “I know. Mr. Franks just told the class,” I whispered back, hoping that my unkind tone would end the conversation.

  “I was hoping you’d tell me your name.”

  I tried to hide the surprised look on my face. “Why would you want to know my name?”

  “Well,” he paused for a moment, “we are going to be sitting beside each other all year. I should at least know your name.”

  I glanced around to make sure nobody was looking. “You really shouldn’t talk to me,” I warned him.

  “What if I want to talk to you?”

  “I’m kind of a freak,” I admitted sadly.

  “Maybe I’m a freak, too.”

  I sighed. “It’s your reputation at stake.”

  “I think I’ll take my chances,” he smiled. “Are you going to tell me your name?”

  “Sofia Black,” I mumbled.

  “Well, Sofia Black, it is very nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise.”

  I turned my attention back to Mr. Franks, who happened to be standing right in front of us.