Hello everyone,

I hope you're as excited as I am about this Wattpad Block Party. Thanks again to KellyAnneBlount for the constant awesomeness!

If you don't know me, I'm Karianne, but I usually just go by Kay and I've been on Wattpad for 9 years as DarknessAndLight. If you've ever seen people swooning about a certain Blake Eaton, that's my fault. Speaking of which, this time around I have decided to make my post in two parts. First, I decided to write a one shot about a certain infamous character of mine's POV: Jayden Eaton, Blake Eaton's brother.

Secondly, I give you guys the first chapter of my story The Family Curse, the first book from my Cursed Wanderers series, which is already completed on my page. I'm sharing it with you here so you guys can read the first book, because I'll start posting the second one, The Family Roots, on September 1st.

I hope you enjoy my post. Without further ado, here it goes...

Jayden Eaton's One Shot POV — The Last Day of Jayden Eaton

The squeaking sound of my opening door woke me up, as it did most mornings.

"How many times do I have to tell you? My door is like a Band-aid. You gotta push it open in one quick move," I mumbled into my pillow.

A little head peeked into my room. Okay, so maybe he wasn't exactly little anymore, but in my head my little brother would always be a two year old in diapers following me around everywhere with a big goofy grin on his face.

"Gooooood morning," he said sheepishly, slowly walking into my room.

I sighed and turned my head to look at him. "What do you want?"

Blake stared at his feet, switching his weight from one foot to the other. "There's this exhibition in town that I really, really want to go see. Would you mind going?"

It was totally my fault that Blake wanted to go to that exhibition. I'd been leaving flyers for it all over the apartment. The problem was, it took him too long to ask to go. I'd already seen it. Twice.

Blake made his careful way to me before handing me the flyer I'd been leaving for him.

"Isn't it its last day?" I asked my little brother.

"Yes."

I rolled my eyes at him. "Why didn't you ask before?"

"I didn't want to bother anyone."

I groaned a little. "Blake, if you want something in life, you need to stop being scared of asking for it."

He shrugged at my comment. "But I know you don't like art and I don't want to bother mom and dad. They're always so busy."

My little brother, ladies and gentleman; so knowledgeable and intuitive about some things, but also so clueless about others. "Who cares if they're busy? They're our parents. It's their job to endure our annoyingnity."

His eyes narrowed. "I don't think annoyingnity is a word."

I laughed. Little bugger. "Oh, so your ten year old butt can't ask to go to an exhibition but you can correct my English? Come here!" I jumped out of bed and went to grab him, but he was quick and ran away from me.

I chased him all the way to the kitchen while he laughed and taunted me.

I would let him win though, I always let him win.

I was barely five when my little brother was born, and my parents had left me with my grandparents the night my mother's contractions started. I hadn't liked that. I had been adamant about being there to meet my little brother the second he came into this world.

My grandparents caved in.

If I begged long enough for anything I'd get it.

I hadn't been allowed in the room, of course but I had seen him being taken away by the nurse. She had showed him to me, all crying and wrinkled.

Afterwards when we had gone to see him at the nursery, I was the only one to notice it. "That's not my brother."

"What was that?"

"That baby. That's not my brother. Did you kidnap my brother because that's not my brother?"

At first people thought I was throwing a tantrum but after fifteen minutes of screaming that I wanted to see my real brother doctor showed up and after careful double checking they realized they had switched two babies, Blake with another.

If I hadn't noticed it, we might have left with the wrong baby.

It was at that moment that I had discovered my purpose in life. I was my brother's keeper.

"What's all this ruckus about?" my father asked when he walked into the kitchen to his sons chasing each other. We both stopped running and stood side by side.

I gave Blake a little shove with my shoulder and whispered a, "Come on."

"Can we go to this exhibition?" he asked, giving my father the pamphlet. "It's the last day and I really want to go."

"And can I not go?" I added with a grin.

My father frowned. "Why not?"

"I already had plans with Kendall this afternoon."

"This was supposed to be a family day," my mother interjected, walking into the room.

"Family day?" I made a grimace. "Come on guys, we're always together. And I can just meet you up for dinner later. It'll be a family evening. And then we can do a family week if you guys want. Kendall's leaving with her parents on their business trip anyway."

My parents looked at each other.

"Please, please, pleasepleaseplease," Blake and I said in unison.

"Fine," my father accepted, "And you can bring Kendall along for dinner."

I grinned. "See, this is why you guys are the superior authority in this house. Your rule is firm but fair."

My mother laughed and my father rolled his eyes, while Blake and I smiled at each other in conspiracy.

That's how I ended up basking under the sun in my girlfriend's backyard lying on the grass beside her while she read.

"What if I say I shall not wait? What if I burst the fleshly Gate and pass, escaped, to thee? What if I file this mortal off, see where it hurt me,—that enough,— and wade in liberty? They cannot take us any more,—Dungeons may call, and guns implore; Unmeaning—now, to me, as laughter was an hour ago, or laces, or a travelling show, or who died yesterday!" Kendall closes the book in her hand. "Tell me again why I'm reading Emily Dickensen's poetry?" she asks me.

I keep my eyes close. "Because the exhibition Blake and my parents are at right now has a lot of bird imagery and birds make me think of Emily Dickinson." I smiled at her. "Also, I love having a British read American poetry."

"Are you trying to have me admit that you're the superior nation again?"

I laughed. "You're the one who said it. Now keep reading with your BBC accent," I teased her.

She flipped me off the British way.

I loved teasing her about her accent even though the sound of her voice was one of the most comforting things in my life.

I was adamant on never losing my New York accent. My little brother was already a lost cause. He'd always been like a sponge when it came to languages. He could learn them quite quickly and he picked up the accent of wherever we were staying in a matter of days.

I loved her accent. And I loved her. I had known Kendall for most of my life. And I think I had always sort of known I was in love with her too, but I had never acted upon those feeling until a couple of years ago. I think it was because I always knew I didn't have to rush things with her. I knew I would always have her by my side. There was no me without Kendall. She was a part of me and I was a part of her.

My brother might have been my responsibility but Kendall was my anchor.

"Also, why are you making me read a poem about suicide? Is this your way of asking for help?" Kendall whined.

I laughed. "Nah, definitely not. I plan on living forever. I'm immortal until the contrary is proven." She rolled her eyes at my comment.

Death was definitely not an option. I had my whole life already planned. I would go study literature at Oxford with Ken while she'd study history or art or whatever her heart desired and then I'd become an editor working at one of the Big Six publishing houses. My mother was a writer and one of the things I loved most in life was reading her stories and telling her how I thought they could be better. She said I had an eye for it. I wasn't sure if she was just messing with me, but I think she had followed most, if not all of my suggestions. I didn't have a talent to write, at least I never thought so, but I was a good critic.

So, I'd be an editor and I'd do paintings and drawings on the down low and I would sell them anonymously. I'd be a kind of Bansky.

I'd be the new Picasso, doing shapes and forms that were considered strange. I'd be the twenty-first century Van Gogh, I'd be misunderstood and mocked during my time but revered after my death. My drawings were peculiar, that's what my best friend Josh always said.

My little brother didn't know about my art, that was why I would stay anonymous. The second I realized that my brother loved art I also realized I would have to hide my own love of it.

Blake always compared himself to me and I knew that he always found himself lacking. If there was one thing I could give my brother, I would give him more confidence. Since I couldn't do that, I could take away the competition. If he didn't know I drew and painted, he wouldn't have to feel inferior when comparing his work to mine.

Kendall sighed contently beside me. "A beautiful sunny day with not one cloud in sight, how often do we get that here?"

I bopped her nose. "Oh, all my days are bright and sunny with you beside me."

She wrinkled her nose, and smiled. "You're so bloody corny."

"Thank you love," I said and then leaned over and kissed her.

With our forehead pressed against the other, Ken whispered, "Can't we just stay here all evening?"

I brushed my fingertips against her temple. "Afraid not, we gotta meet up with my family."

"How about we skip it?"

"It's family night. And I know Blake will want to talk to me all about the exhibit."

She snorted. "You and your brother..."

I laugh. "What's that tone?"

"You know, this relationship you have with your brother, it's no always healthy. He's not your charge. You don't need to take care of him all the time."

I sat up, smiling at her. "I beg to differ. He is my charge. He's my little brother. I have to take care of him."

"Your parents can take care of him."

I shook my head. "No, they can't. They just don't get him like I do."

"He wants to be you so bad that he'll never figure out who he actually is," she told me.

Even if that was true, that wouldn't change our relationship. "I'll show it to him. I'll show him the kind of person I know he can be."

"He might need to figure it out on his own," Kendall said softly.

"Maybe. But unfortunately for him, I'll never let him on his own. I'll always be there for him, no matter what."

She shook her head, but smiled at me. "You Eaton boys, you're so dramatic."

I grinned. "It's one of our numerous irresistible traits."

"Dramatic and corny. You're lucky I love you so much otherwise no one would put up with you."

"It's fine, I'll start dating Josh. He is my better half," I joked.

She gasped in fake shock and then shoved my shoulder teasingly. "And when exactly am I going to meet that better half?"

"Why would I introduce my mistress to my wife?"

"Which of the two am I?"

I gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and got up on my feet. "I'll let you figure that one out on you own."

"Bloody idiot," she said before grabbing my extended hand as I pull her up on her feet.

Kendall's driver was taking us to the restaurant. I couldn't wait to have my own driving license. I had less than one year to wait.

Classical music was playing on the radio. I asked the driver to change it. I couldn't stand listening to recorded concerto. Recordings didn't do them justice. You should only listen to Beethoven or Debussy, Mozart and Tchaikovsky and all the greats in a concert hall, live, with the musicians playing in front of you. Anything else was just a pale copy. Your hairs didn't stand up in sheer awe if you were not in the same room as the instruments throwing vibrations all around them. It was just wrong. Everyone around me thought I didn't like classical music. I loved classical music, just in a setting that honoured it.

I looked at Kendall sitting beside me. I held her hand and smiled before reciting, "My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, and true plain hearts do in the faces rest. Where can we find two better hemispheres, without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mixed equally. If our two loves be one, or, thou and I love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die."

"John Donne?" she smirked. "Is this your way of admitting the UK is the superior nation?"

I laughed. "It's my way of saying I love you."

The car stopped at a red light.

We smiled at each other.

THE END.

I hope you enjoyed Jayden's POV and getting to know him a little better. Also, that you realize he dies like ten minutes after the end of that chapter. MOUHAHAHA.

Next up, Family Curse. 

Cursed Wanderers Series

Book I

Chapter 1

The Genesis of Delirium

I never understood how people could fall asleep in buses. I do get that when you are traveling hundreds of miles at a steady pace, the bus sort of lulls you to sleep, but I'd never be able to fall asleep besides a stranger, leaning my head against them, like the old lady beside me is doing, practically drooling on the only sweater I own. Especially considering the fact that I'm skinny as a stick and my shoulder is definitely not a soft and comforting place to lean on.

But then again I do have a rather untrusting attitude towards anything that is human or that walks or crawls or breathe, hell I'd even mistrust a tree if it felt like it was staring at me for too long—okay I totally ran away from a tree for that very reason but whatever.

Anyway, my schizophrenic tendencies aside, the point of this is, I'm in a damn bus, with a old drooling lady that smells like stalled Indian food and dead cat—the dead cat smell came when she slipped her feet out of her shoes—I'm hot as hell but I can't take my sweater off because I have an old lady leaning against me, I'm still far from destination, or at least I think I am. I haven't eaten in god knows how long. Well that's not true I did pick an untouched quesadilla still in its box on top of a garbage can—beggars can't be choosers—yesterday, and if I had a gun in my bag I would be going on a rampage, no doubts.

I sighed in discouragement and almost pressed my forehead against the window beside me but automatically backed up when I realized how dirty it was—few squashed bugs with trails of their gooey insides, countless greasy finger stains, some unidentifiable clear greenish substance that might actually be snot to be honest—serves me right to pick the cheapest bus ride.

Shoot me in the end with a nail gun and don't clean the mess afterwards.

Good thing there's actually a purpose to this torture because otherwise screw the gun, I'd make do with my nails, a plastic spoon, hell, the old ladies shoes would probably work miracles...

The reason is, I just want to know why. It's what every kids that have been abandoned by their parents wonder; why? And how? How could they abandon me, why did they abandon me? The countless hours I spent in therapies all concluded that in order to move on with my life I had to find a resolution to this fatal question. By saying that they meant I had to deal with my own crap, but seeing as I don't do meditating and finding my inner peace in solitude bull I decided to instead track down my family, grab them by the collar, shake them a little and demand an answer.

It took me three years to raise the money by questionable means to be able to afford someone smarter than a five year old playing Sherlock Holmes to do the research. They were hard to find. For some reason it feels like they don't want to be found—ain't that too fucking bad for them? Those loses ain't gonna get away with abandoning me and not having to deal with it. If they couldn't deal with a kid they shouldn't have had sex to begin with!

Deep breathe, count to ten. One... two... three... four... five... six... seven... eight... nine... ten...

Fuck this, I'm still angry!

Anger management, another useless therapy and a waste of the public funds if you asked me.

It would be ridiculous to deny I have serious issues... Maybe I could've had a better attitude towards all of this, maybe I could have found my inner peace on my own if I hadn't been thrown in the hellholes I have.

My parents didn't even have the decency to put me up for adoption, to try to find people that wanted a child. No, forty days after I was born, my parents dropped me at a church's doorsteps and just left. They scribbled on a piece of paper my date of birth and my name and left a ring held by a silver chain that I was often tempted to pawn, and that was it. No birth certificate, and as far as my actually competent detective goes, he thinks I wasn't even born in an hospital—how more back-woods white trash can you get?

So I ended up in the first family that wanted a baby who didn't take long to realize that they didn't want a baby. Who in their right mind would want a miniature portable poop and puke manufacture? Okay when you say it like that it kind of sounds cool, but when the said poop and puke manufacture starts crying and doesn't stops, it doesn't.

And afterwards it was foster homes after foster homes. Not a happy childhood, not one I like to think about too much. As a matter of fact, when a day is past, I rather never think about it again. It has helped me live and go through my life so far.

In all honestly, I know it's stupid for me to want to meet them because I already know how it's going to go down. I have a god damn Russian name. I just know my mother is going to be some kind of Russian prostitute who came in a container, a very Human Trafficking scenario will ensue which in graphic terms... well the song face down butt up that's the way we like to hmm comes to mind, again, that movie was interesting...

But I have to do this, I need to do this. Soon I'm going to be eighteen and the system is not going to give a crap about me even more than it doesn't now. I'm not a cute little puppy anymore. I got old. No one's going to bring me home. If I want to be able to function I need this, I need answers. Hell, even just looking at them could do me some good. Anything would be better than the way I am right now.

And right now does not just imply having an old lady using me as her cushion. Speaking of her, she was getting way too comfortable, almost snuggling against me.

What if I pushed her away? Would that be wrong? I didn't think it would and even if it was, who gave a crap? But I didn't want to touch her.

I looked at the old lady, and cringed at the sight.

Drool on my shirt, DROOL ON MY SHIRT!

Yeah, no, drooling is inacceptable, however old you are, especially on my shirt!

With the strap of my duffel bag that I had kept carefully tucked against my lap, I tried to wrap it around the top of the old lady's face to pull her away from me but of course, it had to be at that moment that she started to stir, waking up. She did that I'm close to awakening snort, and the drool slipped up back in her mouth and let's just say the whole noise and sight was gross and probably frozen in my memory forever. I had a little chill of disgust running up my back that shook my entire body.

The old drooling lady smiled at me, showing me two very nice holes where her missing front teeth should have been. She would have fitted perfectly in Tombstone, Arizona since I read once somewhere that apparently there was a law there that stated that anyone over the age of 18 couldn't have less than one missing tooth when smiling.

Ludicrous law aside, the whole lady was scaring the crap out of me.

Luckily, it was at that moment that I saw the sign outside that announced Welcome to Hebron. According to my detective extraordinaire my father lived here.

Time to break into a happy dance? Or get into cut-a-bitch mode because if the driver decides to kick you out, it doesn't matter since you're already getting out?

I was about to get up on my feet, my butt halfway up my seat when the old lady's hand snapped and snatched my arm, gripping in with her goddamn claws. While I hissed at her in protest, she pulled me back in my seat and leaned towards me, whispering. "You don't want to go there child."

Alright, not creepy at all. I seriously should have sat somewhere else.

I pulled my arm out of her grip. Obviously I hated being gripped, or even touched for that matter. She could hold on tight for an old lady. "Hmm yes, because I'm sure you know exactly what I want," I huffed.

She stared at me with a seriously disturbing gaze. "You will only find misery and damnation if you step on that soil."

Wow, okay that was definitely not disturbing. Not. Oh, double negation. Scores!

Uncanny feeling coming from a smelly lady, yes, that was exactly what I needed at the moment. "I'm sorry, but aside from the obvious old chick from Legion vibe you got working for you," I made a circling motion towards her, "that makes me believe you're probably on your way to an asylum, or about to tell me that all the babies are gonna burn, nothing about your opinion interests me."

"Such a shame, you seemed like a nice little girl..." she trailed, her gaze suddenly switching to something close to disgust. Bi-polar too? Wow.

"Don't get fool by my pretty face old lady, it's just a decoy," I huffed, got up and stepped away from the crazy person.

The driver looked me up and down when I stopped to stand beside him, waiting for him to stop and open the door. "Ya sure ya wanna get down here girly?"

Okay what was wrong with everyone today? Seriously! "No, I want to stay on the Magic School Bus with you all!" I exclaimed. "Do tell, where is Liz, the class pet lizard?"

Maybe I shouldn't be raising my voice, but I was fuelling on nerves, bad judgement and years of abandonment here. I was bound to be keyed up and jumpy and bitchy.

Finally, the bus came to a stop at a gas station, and swigging my duffel bag that held all my belongings, I stepped out leaving the weird people behind. It wasn't like it was my first rodeo with weird people. Just in the last apartment block I had been staying with my last foster family, there was a woman—Marietta Maner, though we called her the Marietta Mangler—the kind you couldn't even put an age to, and she was always trying to grab us and tell us that the darkness was on its way, and setting big rat traps on every floors. I swear to god that lady was eating rats.

Crazy people aside, I needed to get moving.

At first glance, I really did wonder why the old lady had seemed so adamantly opposed to this town because it didn't look scary at all. Maybe she was balls-out against capitalism and nice houses—her smell could have foreshadowed it—because the place looked nice. Very nice.

The streets were almost uncannily clean, at least compared to the ones I was used to back in Detroit. The Victorian styled houses, more often white than anything, belonged in those decorating magazines, with the lawn perfectly cut and surrounded by white fenced with American flags on them. I could almost imagine the husband laying on the lawn, butt in the air, with scissors and a magnifying glass grooming the grass to make it look this perfect. They undoubtedly used fertilizer and other toxic things to make it so green.

With my duffel bag swung over my shoulder I made my way through the quiet town. Before leaving, I had spend a few hours at the computers at the library, trying to get more familiar with the streets, in order not to get lost and get to my father's house quickly. Thank you Google map. Though, it didn't show all the name of the streets for some reason—maybe because they were just a bunch of dirt roads. Anyway, for the moment I was on Main Street and I knew I had to keep on walking on this street and then turn left on Burrows Hill Road and continued on Jones Street until I reached a big ass pond. A good five miles of walking. It was a good thing I didn't have a lot of stuff in that duffel bag.

Anyway, walking five miles really wasn't that bad, especially in this weather, when I was wearing shoes and socks. I really had no reason to complain. And the walk would be a good way to get my head straight and figure out exactly what I wanted to say to my parents. I had put so much thought into the planning and actually getting here, that I hadn't put too much thought on that what to do once I did get here. Would my parents be together? My super efficient dude that found my father hadn't said anything about a mother. He had shown me a picture of my father though, so I could actually recognized him, but aside from that and his name and that he was my father and his address in Hebron Connecticut, I hadn't gotten a lot about him, or about anyone really. But all those things aside, would he know I existed? My patronym and last name were sort of a dead give away for me, but was he even aware someone walked around with his name? Maybe he didn't? Maybe my momma was a crack addict and he got her pregnant by accident—slip and dip can happen to anyone—and then crack momma left and she gave birth to a crack baby and gave it up to go back to her crack addict ways...

Obviously, mental rambling was never a good thing because I was so worked up with my thoughts that I didn't watch where I was walking and bumped straight into a hard chest. Strong arms steadied me before I fell down on my butt.

I backed up automatically, wriggling out of the man's hold. It might have looked a little rude, like I thought he had a disease and didn't want him to touch me—again, reflex action—so I looked up to thank the person but my words choked in my throat. Usually, in chick flicks, the guy you bump into is this super-über hot guy and the girl ends up with him, so this is almighty proof that my life is definitely not a chick flick.

What do I do? WHAT DO I DO? I am so not prepared! Frick, frack, fuckidy, flack.

The man narrowed his blue eyes at me, frowning a little, probably wondering why my mouth was hanging wide open.

Come on Oksana, grow some damn balls.

I cleared my throat quickly, and stepped back. "Mr. Faustin? Matvei Faustin?"

"...yes..." the way the man looked at me, frowning even more, it's almost like he thought I actually killed all those people in the bus with my nails, plastic spoon and smelly shoes, or that I was about to do it to him—in short terms he looked at me like I was some kind of deranged psychotic serial killer.

Nice. We're totally building up to a great start.

"Hi, my name is Oksana Matveyevna Faustina and I'm your daughter." I put on my best fake-amusement smile, did something close to jazz hands and announced enthusiastically, "Surprise!"

You can read the rest on my Wattpad page...

That's it for my post. I hope you guys enjoyed it. I have one last thing to talk about before I leave you to other Block Party posts. My giveaway! Yay!

This time around, my giveaway is a box filled with things I like. The central piece is a hand-written copy of my short story Birds of Paradise done by yours truly along with a crochet pumpkin because Blake's signature nickname for Lexi needs representation. You'll also be getter first issues of comic books I like and just a bunch of fun stuff. Just follow me on Wattpad and instagram for a chance to win it!

 ***

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