This is a fictional story. Any resemblances to anyone dead or alive is purely coincindental. There is also a song attached to the end of each part to listen to while you read. Please forgive me for any mistakes which I have made and I would appreciate it if you pointed them out to me. Comments are always welcome and I thank you in advance for them.


And in the darkest of all nights, he was dragged. Willingly or not nobody could ever know but as far as he was concerned, he was like a bird trapped in a cage and the only exit, lies within the solace of a reaper's blade. Muscles tensed and body hardened to the fact that he may never see another sunrise ever again. For the moment that one enters the cage, he is never allowed exit. Heaving heavily, he was dragged pass countless of cells, some of which used to contain signs of the living now lay barren, devoid of all activity. How each cell was differentiated from the next was not knowledge known to him, nor was he in any state to indulge in the luxury of thought.

Scars of the past left on his muscled back, evidence of what has just passed. Eyes devoid of emotions, legs too weak to carry him, arms still clenched as if the moment has not passed. Yet, he knew, he knew long before that this was his fate. Choice was not given to him. It was taken. Staring down, he noticed that he was no longer in motion. Though his legs never moved an inch he was constantly moving, at least, he was up until now. A sense of familiarity hit him. The cracks on the wall was etched deep into his memory, seeing it time and time again, he memorised every line every curve that was on the small piece of wall that he had, or at least believe he had. He crawled, back to a corner, eyeing every detail. Hoping he had missed something, something of utmost importance. The stool was where he left it - broken and on its side. The bucket which contained excrement was where he left it - full and with flies all over it. The smell of the cell was familiar; almost welcoming as though the prison itself was relieved to see me.

Cough Cough

"Carry on! What happened to him? Did he die in the prison?" Alan questioned eagerly.

"Yeah! Did he tell the truth of the bad wizard after he was tortured?" Jane continued to bombard the old storyteller.

"The story will continue tomorrow my dears. You three best be on your ways. Tonatiuh is almost at the end of his journey. Your parents must be worried sick." was all the answer the old storyteller gave.

True enough, the old storyteller was right. The shadows were lengthened and the town barely visible even from the hilltop. Behind the tree where we sat, the light was losing the battle, dwindling with each moment threatening to give up and lose the entire town to Metztli whom is said to punish bad children whom stay out in the dark of day. Probably an old wives tale to make children go back before the dark covers the skies.

I'm getting hungry, I better go back

I hope mom's cooked my favourite beef stew

"I think I'm going back home. I'm getting hungry" extorted Alan.

"Me too! I hope we have beef stew today!" Jane stood to leave excitedly.

"And what about you, young boy?" the storyteller asked, staring down at me with eyes that gleaned a silver tint. Blood "Don't you have a home to return to?" he continued. Eyes unblinking as if with each second his eyes bore deeper into my soul searching for an answer deep within.

Nobody would miss me at home. And it's the first house from the hill. I have plenty of time before supper comes.

"Still, it's not very nice if you would miss the start of it. I believe its turkey today." the old storyteller began again.

Admitting defeat, I stood up and began following the trail downhill. Having walked it umpteen times I had no problems even in the dark. Yet, the old man seems very intent on me leaving early, I began to wonder why. Turning my head, I heard a gust of wind pick up and there it was, empty like it was in the morning before he came. Astonished at the fact that he was gone even before I could 'say' my farewells, I hardly noticed that something was wrong until I was almost at the bottom of the hill. There was no other way down the hill except the path I took.

The smell of roasted turkey wafted through the air carried by the cool evening breeze. Without any doubt that the smell came from my place of residence. Home. I thought to myself was never a word I used to describe or call that place. Home was a place where you felt you belong to, a place where you felt at ease, away from the harsh life outside. However, that place was never anything close to warm or inviting. It was cold. A void if you may call it, I would abandon the place at the first moment if given the chance to.

Entering, I saw the said item on the table. Along with it a small plate of salad and some side to go with the turkey. Food was never a problem for me. Villagers provided me with food, out of pity or fear I never know, at least that's what I told myself. But I knew. More than anything I knew. They were afraid. I was an anomaly, an oddity that they avoided at all costs. In this village where parents brought up their children and taught them everything they knew, I without anyone to care for was a sore thumb to them. In exchange for food I was never to bother them or even speak with anyone, or at least they believe I could speak if I wanted to.

It has been long. Too long for me to remember when the last time I spoke was. Memories of speech was as clear as my vision, however, I've seem to have lost that ability since long ago. It was not a necessity that I require, it was more of a convenience that I spoke words. Or at least it used to be a convenience that I spoke words. I did not need words to get my 'words' across. I can delve into minds and they would understand me as if I spoke. It is, however, seemingly different as I remember hearing something once from a wise man that words were scarier than thoughts themselves. Thoughts are akin to a naked body. With nothing to cover itself, no protect of any kind. Words are akin to a warrior, armoured all the way down to his feet. Wielding a double-edged sword, he can do harm to people or himself.

The mind as it is, is more frail than an old woman. To destroy it or manipulate it was second nature to me. I could do it without a single flinch or blink. Where was the fun in that? No... I would need some of the villagers. Already they were frightened of me and often wondered why they bothered to feed me, yet, they could not stop nor disobey the command. Why don't we let him starve? Then our problems would be solved. Thoughts are a funny thing, people think it is harmless but they do not know that with each thought brings an entirely breed of monsters alive. More scary than those that they could ever imagine. Those outside the village wall would seem like puppies as compared to those they were created from their minds.

Finished the last morsel of food from the plate, I washed and dried it before leaving it out for the villager to take back his plate. Settling down, I began to allow my mind to float, carrying me away to scour the land. Most villagers were asleep by this time. Thoughts were less and this relaxed me, often, thoughts were ugly and that disgusted me on many levels. Rest was required if I was to maintain the connection I had with the villagers so I could remain in the village. I had to remain here.

She would come back for me. She promised.


Love For A Child - Jason Mraz