Two Worlds

Chapter 2

The window glass was ferociously rebelling against the dim moon light, emanating a glorious vista. The war it lost, the ray came in, the war it won, the ray went back. The light breeze only added rush to the fight, it was not only the spectator, but also the commencer. It wasn't a fire starter, but it was only performing its assigned duty, and more efficiently than one would think. The humid touch it brought with it was what excited the clash the most. As each drop fell, for that shortest of moments, the fog lifted, until it stuck back down with yet more obstinancy.

The wind brought memories, and not just any, but the one's he was desperately trying to forget. It was the dark. It was always the dark that scared him the most, but also, it was home, it was always where, in the end, he had always found himself. When there is no light at the end of the tunnel, the shadow is destiny, when to be happy is not meant to be, sorrow is where one belongs.

He was yet trying to understand his own state of mind. The clock ticked, imitating each of his beats, but there would always be that on moment when later exceeded the former by a few, and made him capable of defeating that one adversary he had never meant to confront.

His eyes were wet, just like every night. The sweat drops were cautiously playing, chilling and freezing, and somehow teasing his skin. The thoughts that twisted and played in his mind were the ones which broke and healed the heart at regular skips, just like every night. Even while just reflecting, he couldn't find his voice, it was somehow lost in all the words he had said, but were still, somehow, incomplete and unsaid.

The door slowly opened, following a creak, that was so familiar, yet so unwanted at the same time.

"Will you help me colour this?" the little high pitched, hopeful voice demanded. The owner revealed himself in the only fascio di luce that dominated the central space. The brown locks of his hair revealed shades of black in the faded light, his similarly shaded, questioning, gray eyes created a perfect match. His brows, which added grace to his looks, was slightly furrowed. His feet were co-ordinated at the perfect plane, separated by a fair enough distance. The little seven year old boy looked naive, innocent, just as all the children of his age were supposed to be, yet his gait, his cautious manner, if one could read it, indicated perfectly his mature and adult mentality.

One of his hands slightly held up, suporting the printed and smooth cover of the white-coarse paged book. The other, which he kept straight and firmly in front of his chest, showing the neatly held and kept set of bright crayons, some with exposed heads between his small fingers and the others with straight-cut ends.

The older boy glared at him. "Get out," he spat.

The little boy's gaze dropped. It had always been this way. He knew he could never be considered a human by  anyone, neverthless his own brothers. Every breath he took, every word he said was reasonlessly detested by them.

He was innocent, he had no fault, he was no culprit, yet he was always the one with the stained hands. What they felt for him couldn't even be considered a grudge, a grudge seemed somehow more meaningful than their emotions for the little boy.

"Why won't you play with me?"

"I said get out!"

"Tyler, can't we be friends?"

"Don't call me that, get out!" He growled, standing up.

The little boy took a few steps back. "I don't like you, you're not a good brother."

The words were meant to hurt, but they only brought wrath, not pain.

"I hate you." His older brother said flatly. "I hate you. I don't wanna be your friend, and I'm not your brother. I loathe you, I absolutely detest you. Why won't you leave me alone?"