Formaldehyde

By Aven Kelly

Jack and Octavian have been partners in vampiric crime for years and have been cutting swathes of destruction and questionable ethics across North America for a long period of time, looking for the perfect place to lay down some roots.

When they roll into a seemingly harmless town with a corrupt mayor they realise they have found the place for them. With the help of their cohorts in crime as well as strong arming the mayor into helping them, they set up shop and begin to decimate the populace. When the police get involved, they decide it's time to take their operation to a quieter more covert level.

Enter Spirit, a mild mannered mortician from nearby town with a deep desire to get revenge on his own life and by chance meets with the opportunity to help Jack and Octavian.

When they meet Annabelle, a runaway determined to get revenge of her own, they think they have developed the perfect crew to help them run amok in the area. Or have they? Who is working for who, and who is working for themselves?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Aven Kelly
• Release date: Nov 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370533473

Aven Kelly

Hey! I'm Erin - or as I go by in the writing community, Aven Kelly. I've recently finished my first full length novel and am on the hunt for readership now! I'm an avid traveller and am usually on the road - many of my writings get done somewhere not Canada, although Canada features in my novel - there's not enough novels that feature Canada or Canadian characters! :D

Book preview

FORMALDEHYDE

Aven Kelly

Foreword by Author

This is really the full, honest truth behind the novel. It was 2007 when I first started writing it, and I was in a deep, dark, very lonely place. I was being abused emotionally, psychologically and sometimes even physically by someone I thought loved me, and writing was one of the few refuges I had. Well, writing, and spending exorbitant amounts of money on clothes and other general shit I didn't need.

I can't really trace back specifically where I first came up with the idea behind Formaldehyde or the characters. I do vaguely remember thinking of the character Annabelle whilst still in high school (some 13-15 years ago now), but the others were much more recent additions. In reality, Jack was one of the most recent, as strange as that sounds, as in my opinion, he appears the most developed and rounded out and comes across the most 'worked on', but that comes with a story in and of itself. For you see, Jack is in fact, a part of me.

Through all the years of working on this novel I’ve been able to attach a categorisation to each of the characters to an aspect of myself during my darkest times. A lot of people wouldn’t know that when they read the book, but every single character in it (with the exception of a few) is some aspect of myself in that time; the dark badass with an evil streak, the charmer with an image to maintain, the girl who is not only looking to get even but also desperate for someone to understand her, and the guy who just wants to run away from it all.

In all the writing and the re-writing and the changing stories and the development of the entire idea in general, I came to realise one evening while I was in the shower that Jack is my shadow. This was a massive breakthrough for me because, as a pagan, shadow work is quite fundamental to becoming a more developed and well-rounded person. Shadows hold the darkest parts of ourselves, the hatred we bear, the insecurities we face and the like. Now, don't take this to read that every time Jack offs someone that it's actually me wishing I'd commit murder. That's not the idea at all. Instead, Jack houses for me some of the most bare, sketchy and scary parts of myself. The parts that I hide from daily life, and the parts that I used to show only to myself.

In recent years, and thanks muchly to my mentor, Angela Street, I've developed the one thing I've always desired in both writing and life in general – confidence. Confidence to have my writing picked through and analysed and read and re-read and criticised. This is huge for me because I used to get shy as all hell when someone would read one of my stories or poems or other work. I decided for a lark for myself (as well as some serious creative stimulation) to sign up for her scriptwriting course, which made me nervous as hell in the first instance. I'd never done something like that before – something that took my writing and bared it so freshly to people who could choose to like or dislike it as they wanted. It was almost liberating to face this fear, and it's part of what has given me the confidence to actually power through and finish Formaldehyde as the novel, and self-publish it.

In the beginning I was really hesitant to share a lot of the story and the idea mainly for fear that people would dismiss it, but instead I found a lot of people who were, refreshingly, supportive. My peers were fabulous and so helpful. I'd thank them all individually if I could, but I just can't as there were so many, but if you're reading this, you know who you are – shout out to Salisbury Arts Centre Scriptwriters and Salisbury Playhouse Emerging Writers and She Writes.

I'm not here to say Oh, I hope you like it!. You might not. It's definitely not to everyone's taste and I know that. I also know you can't cater to everyone one hundred percent of the time or you'd end up with one confusing basket of kittens. To be honest, I wrote Formaldehyde for me, and have decided to share it with the world as a story of hope. The characters and the story helped me out of a lot of situations and provided an escape when I felt like I couldn't go on. They gave me a safe place to get out my anger and my fears and my burdens, and for that I thank the characters – particularly Jack. Being able to write this story became my self-preservation. It became my own version of formaldehyde.

Other people I'd like to thank are my husband Pete, for his continuous support in listening to me yammer on about characters he hasn't read about yet and for providing his opinion on ideas I come up with. I'd also like to thank my sister, Allie for her continued support as well. I'd like to thank all of my friends and family who have shown support by coming to see bits of Formaldehyde performed at the Salisbury Playhouse in England, and for sharing my social media page and helping get my name and face out there.

Finally I'd like to thank the person who made this story possible in the first place. This story grew like a phoenix from the ashes and became something I am proud of and happy with, so thank you for being the person you were so I could become the person I am and use my own darkness to shed light on issues that are explored in this storyline.

Prologue

Somewhere on the outskirts of Esterhazy, Saskatchewan, Canada

They were soaking wet but running hard, their clothes weighing them down as they tried to stay on their feet in the slippery mud and grass of some prairie farm in central Canada. Jack held a ripped piece of cloth hard over the long gash in his wrist. It pulsed under the strain of his running and it felt wet, but whether that was from the blood or the pouring rain, he wasn't sure. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. The storm still raged on overhead, but they had to get the fuck out of dodge, and fast. It wasn't every day that a routine dinner procurement spiralled as this one just had, but they were essentially ravenous, bloodthirsty animals, and so mistakes were possible, especially when they were desperate like they had recently become.

Jack hid behind a dilapidated, abandoned house, slightly out of the way of the rain and caught his breath while Octavian followed close behind. The wind was ferocious, but was dying down slightly. His silvery blond hair was soaking wet and stuck to his face as he struggled to catch his breath. He braced his eyes and peered back behind them, just as Octavian came sliding around the corner, falling to his side and then sliding in the wet grass and mud. Jack blinked through the rain as it hammered into what little of his face was exposed to the elements while he looked to see if they were being followed. No one was visible. Perhaps they'd gotten away.

They were on the edge of a small Canadian town – where exactly, they didn't know. It was flat, boring and had a lot of farms around it. Octavian wondered how anyone could stand to live in such a dull place, while Jack somewhat enjoyed the relative simplicity of the region. He had been living so chaotically for so long that he almost craved the simple things, but simple and quiet were hardly in his vocabulary at all. He was a wild child, a bad boy and essentially everything that was wrong with the world. He lived and played by his own rules and everyone else could go fuck themselves.

Thunder kept rumbling, but the lightning had started to subside which was good news for them. Running in a storm wasn't exactly easy and it seemed to be letting up at least a bit. Jack pulled his head back behind the barn after surveying the horizon with his sharp, steel coloured eyes. There was nothing to be concerned about. He looked at Octavian.

Ready?

Octavian, still panting, nodded and they set off again, not quite running but definitely not taking their time. It was becoming somewhat uncomfortable to move in the clothes they were wearing which were waterlogged and had become increasingly heavy.

Look, Jack started, his Irish accent thick as he yelled through the storm. I see a barn up here. Maybe we can take some shelter.

I don't give a fuck if it isn't the Four Seasons at this point, Octavian replied, following Jack in a sullen mood, trying to get his hair out of his eyes. As long as it's dry and somewhat warm. Fuck rain.

They rushed as quick as they could to the barn, which stood alone in the darkness of the night and the storm, set a fair distance from a farmhouse which had only a singular porch light on. It seemed quiet – and safe – enough. With a farm there was the chance of getting something to eat as well, which they probably would need in the next several hours considering their first attempt was such a fuck up.

Jack tried the door but it was locked, or at least it didn't open very easily. He tied the cloth he had been pressing against his wrist so it stayed on while he used both hands to try the door again. He motioned to Octavian to help him and together they managed to push the door open enough for Jack to slide through and unlock it properly from the other side, given that he was almost half the size of Octavian, who stood there nervously in the rain, looking around for any signs of life; anyone following them hoping to beat them with clubs, carrying torches like they were some kind of monster that had burst through time to murder villagers and townspeople across the world. Except they kind of had. He wasn't normally this nervous, but you could never tell what could happen when you rocked into a new town and essentially murdered a bunch of people in cold blood. They didn't even get anything out of it. Not really, anyway.

He heard a thudding sound and some rustling from behind the door as Jack struggled with the heavier chains and such that held it closed.

Jack... Hurry up! Octavian hissed through the wooden door.

Shut up. I'm trying in here.

Try harder.

Octavian heard a click then and the door flew open with the wind, almost taking Jack with it into the wall. Jack spat at Octavian to move his ass and get inside to help him with the door. With the sudden gusts of prairie wind, it was a huge job for Jack with his smaller frame. Once secured, they looked around in the darkness, sporadically removed by the lightning which still burst through the storm to light up the world like daylight. It lit the barn enough for them to see the standard farming equipment – old wheels for tractors, chains, a scythe, some general boxes and tins full of things like nails. Jack spied an old wooden ladder leading to the loft of the structure and immediately headed for it.

What are you doing? Octavian asked.

Going to check out upstairs. It's probably safer than hiding out down here.

Sure enough, there was enough hay stored in the loft to make themselves more than comfortable as well as provide a great hiding place should anyone come looking around for them, which they still very well could. Jack hoisted himself easily up into the attic, his wet clothes dripping as he did. They felt cold, but nice against his already icy skin and as soon as he was steady on his feet he began to strip the wet clothes off, layer by layer like peeling some kind of exotic fruit. He wrung the excess water out, which dripped like a leaky tap onto the hay underfoot and looked around for somewhere to hang their clothes, finally settled on hanging them over a piece of piping that came out of the wall and ran down along one side of the barn. It was enough to hold both his and Octavian's clothing to dry, so he laid his shirt, then his trousers, and then finally his underwear out neatly and as flat as he could to help it dry sooner. Octavian came over and did the same.

Jack walked around the upper loft area, looking for something dry to set down on top of the piles of hay to stop it from poking into his skin. He normally enjoyed the finer things in terms of his home – silk sheets and the like – so he wasn't overly used to roughing it. Although roughing it did bring back memories of his childhood – seventeen years growing up in poverty in Ireland before he finally decided to pack up what little he had and try his luck in England, which is where he met Octavian. He hadn't left home on good terms, but he didn't want to think about that. They were memories that haunted him deeply and caused him no end of trauma and unsettled nights wide awake in the dark, the moon only occasionally his night time companion, wondering how different his life would be had he stayed, had his sister lived and had his upbringing after her death been more tender and loving instead of the callous hatred that seemed to fill his family home. Probably much different. For starters he wouldn't be in an attic, naked, cold, wet and running from a potentially large angry mob out for his blood.

Octavian finished hanging his wet clothes in the same manner as Jack and also looked around for something to lay down. He, on the other hand, enjoyed the finer things more frequently than Jack had. Or, he did in recent years anyway. Armani suits, lavish hair cuts, expensive cologne. He was the epitome of a mafia member, if he'd been in one. His chiselled good looks, often slicked back black hair and dark eyes had the girls practically knocking the door down, but they didn't have to. He was constantly on the prowl for his next conquest and considered himself a bit of a playboy, albeit with a bit of arrogance and charm. This was all more endearing than annoying luckily, because Jack had a relatively short fuse and tired of people easily and would have had no issue chucking Octavian to the curb if he got on his nerves too badly. The only thing was they both relatively needed each other, or so it seemed.

They found some old pieces of burlap nearby, presumably used for sacks to transport something like oats at one time not far in the past. They laid the bags out on the hay and laid on top of them, pulling hay over top of their built and toned bodies to keep warm. The storm had died even more and it was clear that they'd be able to move on once the clothing had dried. Jack's stomach growled as he nestled himself down in the hay deeper. He was starving. Octavian had at least gotten some sustenance at their last pit stop before all hell broke loose, but he barely got started before it kicked off. He'd have to find something in a couple of hours or he was going to be crabby all day long. He'd heard a humorous way to describe that feeling before. Hangry. Hungry-angry.

Where to next? he heard Octavian ask in the darkness from somewhere nearby. He pondered the question for a moment. He had no idea. West? South? North? Where was there to go in Canada? West made the most sense, maybe find a big city or a larger town. Somewhere they could happily exist and have a steady flow of food.

West, I guess. Jack replied, closing his eyes, his accent adorable, making his callousness even more shocking. Despite being in North America over two hundred years it hadn’t faded much. Alberta has some pretty big cities. But I need to eat first.

What? Back out there? Are you nuts?

You know I didn't get anything, you idiot. Not after you fucked it up colossally.

Oh calm down. It was an accident.

It's always a fucking accident with you. You never take any responsibility for anything you do. Not at all.

Octavian pondered this for a minute. Maybe he did let things get out of control at the last farm house they visited. But it wasn't that he wasn't trying to make it go to hell on purpose. He was just enjoying himself, having fun, getting the job done and having a bit to eat while doing it. It wasn't his fault Jack was insatiable when it came to women and Octavian was then forced to go distract people who could come in and potentially disturb Jack. That's when it'd gotten... well, messy to say the least.

Jack kept his eyes closed, trying to stave off the cravings he was experiencing. It rose in his stomach slowly and into his chest, making his breathing shallow and what passed for his pulse race. It felt like what any normal person would identify as anxiety, only with Jack it was an innate craving for blood and lots of it. He hadn't had any in nearly a week, which was almost a record for him. They'd had to play it cool as much as they could in smaller towns, but that very evening they could no longer control themselves and they'd come inches from being killed, but he didn't want to think about it. They'd ended up turning a couple of the people in an effort to keep themselves safe, and that's how he'd ended up with the giant gash on his wrist. He held it up in the darkness and opened his eyes. The cloth was dark with his blood, which also explained why he felt so weak. He'd given a lot of that out freely in the last hour or two.

They'd gone up to the door of a farmhouse in the storm and asked for help. The people had been kind enough to let them in, feed them cake and tea and give them a bed in their home to sleep for the night or at least until the storm passed. Things had gotten out of control though, and between Jack attempting to rape the farmer's daughter while feeding off of her, Octavian feasting on the parents, some rather crazy unpleasantness when the neighbours burst in with guns and the daughter trying to seek revenge despite the fact her own throat had been ripped open, Jack more or less tore his wrist open, spraying his blood in their general directions, aiming for their faces and mouths if possible in order to turn them into vampires themselves. General havoc ensued as the neighbours fired guns at Jack and Octavian and they took off into the pouring rain and dark night, and now found themselves up in the hay loft of a nearby barn, hiding out.

Jack pulled the cloth off his wrist and examined his cut in the sporadic lightning. It really was nasty. You could tell that it was a quick job and had been done with his own teeth – it was jagged and looked like it'd been chewed by a dog. Maybe not quite as large but close. He winced and made a face in the darkness. He decided to let it air out a bit. It was probably better than being covered by a damp, dirty piece of rag. The last thing he wanted now was an infection to accompany the hunger that was building in him by the minute, rising like lava and making him more and more prone to do something he’d likely regret.

Except Jack never had regrets. Even when something went wrong like it had that evening, he went with the flow and reacted in real time. He didn’t give anything a second thought and he certainly didn’t care to over think anything, except when he was inconvenienced, although he couldn’t really blame Octavian. They were often as bad as each other. It was a wonder anything ever got done at all.

The hunger pangs grew and his wrist still throbbed with pain. The bleeding had stopped, but that was small solace compared with the hunger now. He decided he would forego sleep in exchange for not being hungry, even though he could hear Octavian already snoring away somewhere nearby in the darkness. He rolled over onto his left side and reached for his big army boot that he’d kicked off when he’d gotten up into the loft. He hoped to God the amphetamine he’d stashed inside hadn’t gotten wet.

It hadn’t. He breathed a sigh of relief, trying not to wake Octavian. There wasn’t much left and he didn’t want to share. Not when Octavian had gotten at least had some food. The drugs were all his. At least amphetamine put the halt on appetite. Except he couldn’t snort it, which would help it work faster. Instead he could only swallow it, which was going to be relatively disgusting in this situation. No water and having to swallow a disgusting chemical to get a buzz on to quell the hunger in his stomach. Not exactly ideal.

He opened the baggie as quietly as he could and tipped its contents into his mouth. He made a face at the taste, which was akin to some strong cough medicine, but worse. There was no pleasant flavouring to try and cover the disgusting nature of the drug. He reached up and grabbed his shirt off the pipe, which was near him. He squeezed rainwater into his mouth from the shirt, as much as he could manage. It was enough to help him swallow the powder, which helped, although the taste in his mouth remained. He thought of anything he could do to take the taste away and his wrist popped into his mind. He held it up and decided blood was better than amphetamine. He opened his wound again lightly with one of his long nails and licked at it. He was right. It was definitely better.

All he could do now was lay back in the hay and wait for the amphetamine to hit him enough to stop the hunger. He hoped it would help, at least a bit. He had easily 18 hours before he’d be able to go out and get anything to eat again, so it had to help. If it didn’t, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to take the blame for what happened next. He had a moment where he considered killing Octavian in a fit of fury, but that wouldn’t do him any good at all. Besides, he’d become accustomed to that stupid oaf, even if he did fuck shit up more often than not. He put his hands behind his head, feeling his hair still damp from the rain. Octavian snorted and started snoring louder than he ever had before. It was probably a good thing Jack had taken the amphetamine. He wasn’t going to sleep anyway with that racket.

The only thing that sucked about being high and alone was that could be when the memories came flooding back. He could more or less stop them before they became too heavy, which was good as if he wasn’t able he’d be likely to be driven insane by their incessant chattering in his head. He sometimes wondered if getting into drugs was the right thing to do, but the nightmares had become too horrific to deal with. He’d rather deal with memories than nightmares. Memories he could control. Nightmares he couldn’t. He resigned himself to a life of wakefulness, and perhaps needing to keep it up with strings of various stimulants. He got comfortable in the hay and closed his eyes, waiting for the drugs to take hold, almost matching his breathing with Octavian’s snoring. He hoped they’d work fast.

Chapter One

One month later. Beiseker, Alberta, Canada.

The phone rang four times before he got to it. Something about the ring was urgent – as they all had been lately. It was