darkwolf58
Synopsis
The teenage Antichrist doesn't want the job. He hates his parents, keeps running away from home, and likes to hang out with deities from other pantheons. He was born to bring about the end of the world, but he's going to save it instead.
Excerpt
My name is Alex Holden, and I’m the Antichrist. It’s not like I had choice about it. My father is the Devil, my mom is a crazy Satanist bitch (and no I don’t mean the Anton Levey kind of Satanist, I mean the old school actual devil worshiping type). I f**king hate them both and my life would be much happier if I never saw either of those f**kers again. My foster father, too. Sometimes I feel sorry for the poor bastard, since he’s really just there for good PR when I start my political career. Nowadays you can swing the born to an unwed mother thing, but it’s still better to have the old American Dream nuclear family thing going on. So my mom is married to another Satanist basically so I have a public father when the reporters start snooping around. My foster father is almost as crazy as my mother. Almost.
No siblings for me. I used to think it was because I was so special no other child they had could ever measure up to me, that they wanted to focus all their attention on me. Now I know it was because they didn’t want to risk me getting jealous or upset and like, exploding the poor kid or something. Could you imagine getting pissed at your little brother or sister and then BAM, nothing but guts and blood all over the walls. I suppose Satan could have put the same protections on them that he put on mom and Ken because I haven’t been able to blow them up or disembowel them no matter how many times I tried. My terrible twos were apparently really epic, and believe me, the only reason they survived is the magical protection that keeps me from doing them any serious harm.
Speaking of being two, my earliest memory is of my second birthday when they sacrificed a black goat to my dad. I didn’t know what they were doing until they did it. When I saw the goat I thought it was for me. I remember petting it and it snuffled my hand with his nose. Then they did the ceremony and cut its throat. I remember all the blood and the sad noise it made. I was too young to really understand death, but I knew it was hurt and when it fell down and didn’t move I knew it wasn’t going to be my pet. I cried and cried no matter what they said to try to soothe me. They all looked surprised, like they expected the son of the devil to enjoy something like that. So yeah, your trauma about the scary clown on your second birthday? I got you beat.
After that they didn’t do any more animal sacrifices for my birthday, at least not in front of me. That’s good for them, because every year my powers got stronger. By four or so I would have been able to stop them, even if I couldn’t hurt them. When I was four I could control flies and talk to rats and crows. The rats sometimes did what I told them to, but the crows just wanted to chat. I still can’t control them, but they do things if I ask nicely and if they’re so inclined. Other kids have toy planes for mock battles. I used flies and had them flying formations, shooting each other down, winning and losing battles. I was seven before I realized not all kids could do that.
When I was four they got me a cat. My mom wanted to get me a dog, a rottweiller like the f**king Omen or a doberman like the hound of Dracula or some s**t. I didn’t want a dog, I wanted a cat. I begged and begged until they finally gave in. They figured as long as it was a black cat it was okay. So I got a little black kitten and named it Mew-Mew. I was four, okay? Even at four I realized that I could hurt things without really meaning to, so I was extra careful with Mew-Mew to make sure he stayed safe. My mom made the mistake of hurting him one day and I made her pay. No, I couldn’t physically hurt her, not with my powers, but I left some toys on the stairs in the dark and she ended up with a sprained ankle and several bruises. She didn’t hurt Mew-Mew anymore.
