I recently started writing a fanfiction (oh close your mouth, for goodness sake) story, but after a couple of chapters I started thinking about turning it into a original story. There's something dark about the whole idea that just appeals to me. Here's an excerpt of the story, with the names changed, for your enjoyment. Let me know what you think - worth pursuing an original, or stick to fanfiction?

Through a Brother's Eyes

The first time he'd killed, he'd been nine and in his freshman year at senior high. It'd been an accident, and he still can't really remember what'd happened. Something about velocity, impact, and the mathematics of aerodynamics... He'd always known that he was different – genius they called him – but when he had looked at that dead chick, feeling only disappointment that his hypothesis had been incorrect, it'd been the first time he'd wondered if different was wrong.

He hadn't thought about that chick again until five years later. He and his brother were graduating – and everyone was so proud. His parents were so obsessed with taking pictures of their young genius; they hadn't noticed when their eldest son had slipped away. But he had. Tony loved his brother. Even though they were never that close, Mikey had always been there when he really needed him. He protected against bullies, and held him through the nightmares. And hugs... hugs were precious – precious because they came from his brother, and they came very, very rarely. Yes, he loved his older brother very much, and he knew him very well... so when he saw Mikey slip away, Tony knew that his older sibling was unhappy at being left out again.

It wasn't difficult to distract his parents. Soon enough they were in deep conversation with a college professor who wanted to 'recruit' him for their program, and he was out hunting Michael down. Today was a hug day. His brother, Tony found out, had the same thought. Only, Michael wasn't hugging him today. Instead he was hugging a strange girl, hidden in a dark corner far away from the crowd. He'd seen her before... She was a cruel girl, often making fun of him and his equations, looking down on everyone around her... and now she was stealing his hug! But it wasn't just the hug. He could hear them moaning as he crept closer, watching with wide eyes when he realised just what Mikey was doing with the girl...

Two days later, as he watched the blond corpse sink into the depths, Tony realized something interesting. The numbers were quiet. Not silent, never silent, but instead of being a near blinding chorus in his mind, they had become a pleasurable, comfortable hum... but he also realised something else. She was never going to touch Michael again, because Michael was his Michael, and maybe, just maybe, he loved Mikey a little more than he technically should.

When Mikey had left, he'd thought it might just be a good thing, even if he almost hated him for it.

The next few years, Tony threw himself into his work. He threw himself into several other things as well, but they always had dark hair and dark eyes and he never knew their names. He didn't want to know their names. But it wasn't until the trip to give a lecture on his groundbreaking Convergent Hypothesis in Los Angeles when one of his faceless, nameless Michael's thought he could break the rules. He heard something on the news when they got back two days later, but he already knew the cops weren't going to find anything. Just like he knew that he liked carving the bastard up.

He'd had to face the truth after that. He thought he cared about them. About dad and Melissa and Harry... and mom. But when mom was dying, and his dad yelled at him almost every day to go and say his goodbyes... he still couldn't leave his study. They would all believe that he'd lost himself in the unsolvable equations he so loved to tackle, because he couldn't deal with his mother's death. It was a lie he let them believe. He didn't work at them because he wanted to ignore his mother's illness, but because he just couldn't understand why the thought of it didn't frighten him, or make him sad. He knew it should...

The truth was, he worked on them because maybe, just maybe, solving someone else's unsolvable problem would help him solve his own.

Heartless. That's the word he'd ascribed himself during those months. Emotionless. His father had certainly told him that more than enough times – and Tony almost believed it, too. Until Mikey came back. So different... and so the same. The same dark hair and dark eyes, the same voice, same rough hands and powerful body... and when those hands jerked him away from his blackboards, shaking him in anger, Tony knew it was time to leave the study. He wasn't heartless or emotionless. He'd found the solution to his problem, the other side of the emotional equation. He wasn't too surprised by it either.

 The answer could only ever have been Michael.

Very slowly, their lives began to settle into a pattern. Michael was still Michael, and Tony still turned to faceless shadows. Sometimes he even thought it was funny, how no one could see him for what he was. They all thought he was sweet and funny and so intelligent, if a little socially awkward. Professor Tony Bennes, who can't see the way Melissa looks at him, who's probably still a virgin, and who could never hurt a fly. If only they knew...

Then, one day, everything changes and suddenly Tony is involved with the NYPD, helping them on their cases. No, not helping them... helping Michael. He'd walked into the building, expecting to feel a certain... fear. There were, after all, still cold cases in this very building that related to things he'd done. But when he stepped off the elevator, there was nothing but excitement to see and help his brother. And did they ever work well together, just like Tony had always known they would.

 He allowed himself to get a little... closer, every now and then. Like after the shooting. He'd practically folded himself into Mikey then. It wasn't so much because of the shooting itself, but when Michael had rushed forward and held him, he took advantage. Life went on, but sometimes Tony could almost believe that Mikey felt something for him, too. A look that lingered, a touch or a squeeze that lasted just a second longer than it should between siblings...

 And then came Elizabeth Darro.

When he'd found the box and the ring inside it, Tony had stared at it for a good, long while. Someone had come very close to stealing his Michael away... Three days later, Tony showed up at Michael's door with the box. He'd settled in on the couch with him, a happy little smile on his face. Michael had chosen to stay here, with him, even if there had been a woman waiting for him. And Tony knew that Michael would always be his.

Thirty eight hours later, Michael and his team were informed that Elizabeth had mysteriously disappeared. His brother had nearly killed himself in an attempt to find her – but Tony knew he never would. She would be just another cold case... Instead, when Michael finally broke two months later, it was Tony that sat with him in the dark of the apartment. Tony who made sure that Michael didn't drink too much, that he ate and took his showers while they waited for him to be approved for active duty again. It was Tony who comforted him, running his fingers through his brother's soft hair as Michael lay on his lap while they watched Gulliver's Travels together.

 And he knew that, if anyone was ever going to catch him...

 ...it was going to be his Michael.

Dear Muse,

I started the original draft of this letter while I was quite frustrated. As you know, it is National Novel Writing Month and I have been drawing creativity from every source I can get my hands on to finish this book in time. But now - while I need you most - you seem to be constantly hiding, finding excuses and just generally proving to be unhelpful.

I finished a long letter - read RANT - about why you should be around, how disappointed I am, and how I was going to chain you up once you finally got back. And when I was done, I sat back, feeling better and quite self justified, staring at the pages filled with ink.

It took all of five minutes before I regretted writing that letter. In those five minutes, something amazing happened, something which I can barely describe. You see, my dear muse, in those five minutes I suddenly realized I thought of you not just as some mythical force, but a powerful creative entity that was an extension of myself. I thought of you as a living being in those minutes - and I felt horrible. I reread those pages several times, and I realized what a horrible mistake I had made.

Because you see, Muse, I can't blame you. 

I can't blame you for wanting to hide away from someone who would write such a letter, just like I would hide myself if someone wanted to do those things to me.
I expect you to be around whenever I demand it, no questions asked, no excuses given.
I expect you to come with creativity and ideas in hand, and to keep delivering when I feel that the ones you've tried to inspire me with aren't good enough.
I expect you to stay as long as I need you to, without rest, without breaks, without some time to stew in subconscious creative juices and come up with something new.
I expect you to be happy with these circumstances, where I'm prone to complain about your lack of work and dedication, your constant escapes, and rant, rave and insult you all the time.

If my boss wrote me a list of expectations like that, I would NEVER work for him. I would quit my job or sue him! And yet, here I was, writing out a whole letter demanding that you explain why you weren't following those rules.

And I came to realize a few very important things:

I realized that maybe you kept running away because I kept trying cage you and force you to work.
I realized that maybe you enjoyed coming on your own, and that you don't appreciate being summoned like a dog or slave.
I realized that even muses need time to rest, time to themselves, so that they can deliver later.

I realized that you are incredibly dedicated and understanding. You give and you give, and it's never enough. And on the few occasions when you actually get the chance to come up with a great idea, and can't wait to show it to me, I complain that you are being active at the worst possible time.

AND I'M SORRY.

I imagine that if you were a physical person, you would be one of the unhappiest, most depressed people in existence. And nobody would care.

When I started this letter, I'd planned to rant about how horrible you are, and how you were failing me.

Instead, I'd like to say: THANK YOU.

Thank you for always making some effort to show up, even when you hate that I called you.
Thank you for always coming with some ideas, even if they aren't the best. You take the abuse, the insults, the mockery, and you can't say anything about it - and you take some more after you get back from hiding out.
Thank you for always coming back, and sticking with me despite everything. I can't imagine how many times you've wanted to leave and never come back
Thank you for always trying to inspire me, and caring for my creative self.

You might not walk around or talk, or have a physical body, but that doesn't mean that I shouldn't respect you or that creative part of myself. It does mean that you need someone to speak out for you, someone who cares. It's unfortunate that that someone just so happens to be the worst offender, ME, but I'll try harder.

In short, Muse, this letter is a promise.

I promise I'll try harder to see your side of things. 
I promise I'll understand when you need a break.
I promise I'll take a closer look at your ideas, no matter how horrible they may seem, and try to find the good in them.
I promise to actually work with you rather than expecting you to do all the work.

And most important: I Promise to respect you - you who are a part of me, an extension of my being and my creativity - and in so doing respect myself.

With all my love,
Your Writer

Right now I feel trapped in a cold dark place - it doesn't feel nice and safe, like the start of the month when you know you have plenty of time, but it doesn't feel quite like the panicked rush of the last week either. Do you know what this place is called? I'll tell you.

'Just after the halfway mark - The Point of No Return.' Otherwise known as, 'How the heck did I get here, and where is the pause button!?'

Thankfully, I've been fortunate enough to have plenty of support through the cold sweats, sleepless nights and coffee filled writing drives. This has resulted in a semi acceptable word count and something that resembles the scum covered, back end of an excuse for a first draft of a novel! And yet, despite how horrible it is, I AM DAMNED PROUD OF IT!

Why?

Because I'm writing. And any writer will tell you, the hardest part of writing a novel is 'Writing The First Draft'.

Since I'm so proud of this forming first draft, I've decided I want to share some of it. Below you will find a short excerpt from the novel I am currently working on called 'The Hellfire Club'.

I hope you enjoy it!

   Mary cradled the little bundle closer to her chest as she softly sang a lullaby. Little Jack was such a quiet baby - her special boy. It didn’t matter who the father was. All that mattered was that it was in the past, and that she and Jack were safe.

Mary smiled as the baby continued to stare up at her with soft blue eyes, never blinking and reminding her of Jack Senior. She couldn't help but wonder if she would ever tell him about his father.

“Hush, little one, time for bed.” She whispered, walked over to the bed to lay him down.

No, she decided, she wouldn't tell him. He didn't deserve to know about everything that had transpired up to the point where she had fled that club. Maybe she would make up stories for the boy, give him a wonderful father. A kind, caring man. The sort of man who would travel the world, caring for others. Jack didn't need to know any different.

Mary tugged the soft blue blanket around him. There was a loud knock downstairs, and a few seconds later she heard a voice calling up.

“I will get it missus Mary!”

Annie had been a blessing, taking good care of her and little Jack. The kindly maid had been an angel during the pregnancy, and her cooking was mana to a pregnant woman with cravings. Annie had also raised several children and grandchildren of her own, and her experience was invaluable to Mary, who was still slightly frightened of being a mother.

After a few minutes of silence she turned to stare at the door of the bedroom.

“Who is it Annie?” There was no answer.

“Annie?” she called again.

When there was still no answer, Mary frowned. Annie was always very vocal about who came visiting and why. She seemed to sense that Mary wasn't very fond of strangers, and made sure to announce any arrivals quickly and loudly.

Mary carefully detached herself from her little one. With soft steps she walked across the landing, adjusting her gown to appear more appropriate.

“Annie, who’s at the…” she stopped abruptly as she caught sight of Annie’s lifeless eyes staring up at her from the floor of the foyer. There was no blood, but her skin was as pale as death himself.

Next to her body was a black shoe. A very familiar polished black shoe. Mary gasped, and slowly she looked upwards, instinctively taking a few steps back.

Piercing black eyes stared at her, as the man in black smirked at her toothily, his sharp teeth glinting in the candlelight.

“Hello Mary. Missed me?”

Well, that's that. As always, feedback is welcomed and much loved. I'd also love to hear about any lines from your own works that you are proud of! Leave your feedback, comments, thoughts or own snippets in the comments below!