Page 1 of Shattered Hate

Prologue

Trayton - Four years ago

Girls. Girls. Girls.

By the time I reached the age of ten, it was all about girls. If you didn’t want to ask a girl out, it was weird. If you didn’t comment on how pretty a girl was, it was weird.

I hated it because I didn’t look at girls like that. I wanted to, but I didn’t get what was so amazing about them.

What I did like was the idea of love. From a very young age, I always craved to know what true love felt like, especially after my mom left me a note saying goodbye and telling me one day I would understand.

“One day, when you fall in love, Trayton, you will understand why I’ve had to leave.”

All she ever did was watch movies with lots of kissing and read books that made her smile more than I or Dad ever could. I asked her once what love felt like because I didn’t think I had ever experienced it. I remember her looking sadly at me and saying, “The movies and books say you’ll know it’s love whenyour heart aches just to be near that person. The nausea when you’re apart consumes your body and mind. Butterflies flutter in your ribcage, and one glance at that person releases them, swarming your body and leaving you floating and happy. It’s an exhilarating rush, like a rollercoaster ride, where fear and excitement blend into pure joy. But it’s also the quiet moments of peace, where simply being in their presence and sharing the silence speaks louder than words ever could.”

I wanted to feel that. And I think my mom did too. I think that’s why she left me. I think she wanted to go find that love. My dad’s love was his work; it was never my mom. And my love? I don’t think it was enough for her.

I wanted to know what was so good about love that she left me for it. So in elementary school, I had a girlfriend, Natalie. Every guy in my class liked Natalie. They would leave her notes on her chair, and their eyes would follow her on the playground. But I didn’t feel how I thought I should have felt. For a while, I thought I was broken; I thought something was wrong with me. Because I hated every single minute of being with Natalie.

I hated the feel of her soft skin when she’d try to hold my hand on the playground. I hated her dull eyes that would capture me anytime I was near her. Where was this sparkle they talked about in Mom’s movies? I felt nothing when I looked at her.

On my eleventh birthday, I went to the lighthouse near home, my refuge from the chaos of my mind. I went there to escape, to find solitude like I always did when my head got too loud. But on that day, I wasn’t alone. I met a boy there. He smiled at me and said, “Hi.” I asked him why he was there, and he just shrugged, his cheeks turning a deep shade of red before he dropped his head. He didn’t say much, but just sitting with him was enough. In that moment, with his shy smile and the way he made me feel seen, I realized I liked him a lot more than Natalie. I went to that lighthouse every day for two months straight. He was thereagain and again. There was a strange, exhilarating excitement whenever I saw him.

I was eleven years old when I realized I wasn’t broken.

I just didn’t like girls. I liked boys. I likedthisboy.But why? He always sat there with his hood up. He barely spoke to me. He never told me his name, even when I told him mine. But he was peace. He was calming when I needed it. His smile stood out against the darkness of his hoodie that framed his face, and although I could barely see his eyes, I used to catch the redness creeping up his cheeks when he smiled.

He just smiled at me and went red a lot. But god, that smile—it did things to me. It was like a light piercing through the shadows, making my heart race and my palms sweat. I liked it. I think I went red quite a lot too.

I stare down at my lucky coin, flipping it between my fingers, remembering the day he gave it to me.

“What is this?” I frown down at the thin silver coin that’s engraved.

“Call it a lucky coin,” he mumbled.

I squint my eyes and read what it says. "Fuck Yes." I laugh, placing my hand over my mouth because I swore.

“Turn it over.” He smiled.

I turn it over and read "Fuck No." I frown up at him. “What does it mean?” I’m confused about why he gave it to me.

He shrugged. “Whatever you want it to mean.” And with that, he stood up and left.

I ran down the stairs of the lighthouse and kissed him on the cheek to say thank you. My lips tingled all night.

I went back the following day. He wasn’t there.

Or the day after that.

Every day for a month, I went back.

I cried that night. I didn’t even cry when my mom left.

The words they used to describe love—I had that. I was eleven years old when I felt all of it. Then, I didn’t know what it meant, but it sure felt like what Mom described.

It sucked.

Nobody warns you that first love can change you forever.

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