The street lights buzzed in an eerie tone. The streets were empty. As far back, fowards, left and right as you could see. For, this place, lit by the dimmest and grimiest street lights, held a deep and dark secret. That secret, rarely heard of. Yet rarely unheard of. Only those with little intelligence would have been seen to seek such a place out.
The town was in ruins. It's community, in shreds.
From a foggy window, a bright white light shone. The dragged out chords of a piano screeched heart wrenching cries. Those of ones pity, ones sorrows and shattered dreams.
Ah, but soon was such an inviting light dove into the abyss of darkness. As footsteps echoed the streets. Murmurs filled the air. A ghostly cry echoing out. Those in masks were out once more.
The piano had stopped.
Everything had seemed to fall silent. Everything but the sound of doors caving in, screams of terror; screams of repent winding down the alleys. Moments later, a young child, no more than seven, scuttled down the street, as if he'd seen a ghost.
He'd seen the masked men. With their tuxedos and their suits, ravage the house. He'd seen his mothers lifeless eyes as she'd fallen to the floor. Her throat slit. There was no turning back now.
The people had grown afraid of these men. Learnt to live on the edge. Out of societies grasp. Yet, it was not enough.
You'd have to live more on edge.
You'd have to be slick. You'd have to be swift.
For the young lad making an escape down the street; this was only the threshold of his twisted existence.
For this life, was in bedlam.
