One Shots

Sweet Orange Blues (a ghost story)

//you can imagine this lil one shot with whatever person/character you see fit. I didn't put names, aside from the fact that the unnamed character is male.

***

the rain poured stones on the rooftop, scaring the boy in the rocking chair.

pitter patter pitter patter thunk thunk thunk.

the boy kept his lips zipped shut, his hands clutching the sleeves of his worn out grey sweater like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Maybe it was, the boy did not know.

the room smelled like burning wood and strawberry shortcake, which only made the boy more unsettled. As cold as he was, he was sweating, his brow leaking beads of perspiration. He hated it.

the phantom was coming, the boy could feel it by the rattling in his bones as the rain kept dumping noisy water on the roof above his head. He hated hated hated it, but he was glued to his chair.

Where are you, he thought to himself. Where are you hiding?

the phantom was always coming for the boy. Ever since he was nothing but a toddler running around on two chubby legs, the ghost followed him around, it's cold fingers drawing all the warmth from the boy's body. The boy was always left with a sinister feeling deep in the pit of his stomach, but he could never place it.

who was this ghost? What was the name of this phantom that had been following him around for so long?

the rocking chair creaked as the boy finally found the strength to get off it. His feet touched the ice cold ground, making him shiver. He walked closer to the orange hands that curled and grabbed in the fire place, hoping that they could at least warm him.

and then the boy saw the phantom, standing there with it's dark eyes and blackened hands.

"Who are you?" The boy asked, his voice scratchy like autumn leaves on pavement. He was coming down with a cold, no doubt.

the ghost only tilted it's head to the side, observing the boy. It's-his-lips parted slightly, as if he was about to say something. He never once spoke in all the years he had been following the boy around.

"Please," the boy almost begged, "I want to know."

the boy walked closer to the phantom, who stayed in his place. They were the same height, the boy noted. How odd.

"Why don't you ever speak to me? I just want to know who you are, please." The boy reached his hand out slightly, then rethought his idea and let his hand drop back by his side. In the dim light, he almost could have sworn that his hand was black and charred just like the ghost's.

the rain got louder as the boy waited silently for an answer. He desperately wanted to know who this ghost was and why he was here. He was sick of being tortured like this.

the ghost opened his mouth, and this time, words were present on his lips, "I am you."

confused, the boy asked, "What? What do you mean?" He didn't even want to acknowledge the fact that the soft voice of the phantom was identical to his own.

"I am what you will become," the ghost said, his voice enveloping the boy like the arms of a mother that the boy did not have. The boy was still confused. What in the world was this phantom going on about?

the frames on the table by the rocking chair began to rattle, spooking the boy. The rain thundered louder than it ever had as the ghost's hands grabbed the boy's.

"I am you. I am who will become. I am you. I am your future," the ghost kept repeating. A sour taste filled the boy's mouth, staining his tongue and clogging his throat. Smoke.

the room was hotter than it had ever been, orange flames licking the walls. The boy tried to get away form the iron grip of his ghost, the ghost that wasn't even a ghost at all, but a warning. The boy had begun to understand, but it was too late for him now.

the orange hands of the devilish hot fire gripped his hair and clothes, ripping his skin and making his whole body scream. The boy was screaming, screaming for someone to save him from the fire he had accidentally caused.

he was burning.

burning.

and nobody heard his lonely screams as the rain crashed like waves against their rooftops.