The Little Boy Who Followed Death

1: The Little Boy

The house was lonely. Isolated in the middle of a field luxuriously green and spotted with pink, yellow and white flowers, the long house sat, miserable, melancholic, condemned. The sky shone with radiant sunlight, tinted the prettiest blue. The heavens smiled upon the scene, and small wild animals roamed freely and without fear. But the house lurked, loathing the world's seemingly constant cheer. It contrasted harshly with its own misery.

The shutters were drawn. Doors were boarded up. A rusted pickup hugged the ground, missing three wheels. The wood was molded and rotten, the entire structure creaked and protested with every gust of wind. Paint was something the place hadn't seen in years. It was so sad.

So cold.

So quiet.

So forgotten.

So dead.

Night fell slowly, painstakingly taking it's time. The moon, humbler than the sun, said nothing as it graced the night with a soft gaze. The stars blinked excitedly as if anticipating the events to come. The world seemed content to restrain its joy, and kept still.

And then it began.

A shutter at one end of the house shook feebly, a small thumping noise was heard, and after a few more shakes, the shutters parted. Out crawled a tiny figure and it fell onto the dirt below, crying out in pain. It kept crying pitiously, heartbreaking. Picking itself up, it started walking in the direction the moon had come out. Its dark matted curls were a tangle, its face dirty and tear-streaked. Mourning eyes begged for compassion and warmth, thin lips quivered with silent sadness. Its short legs stumbled and carried him slowly across the large countryside, searching for something to go to.

The boy fell many times, and rested a great deal more. His feet burned and the cold stabbed at him. His little lungs could take no more. But on he went, bravely. He cried for a home, for himself, for his mother. But she wouldn't miss him.

She had already gone to sleep.

Dawn was just starting to break when he found the road. Dressed in gray the early morning came. Exhausted, deprived, stiff with cold and pain and want, he leaned on a tall pole with thick black wires connecting to others. This pole too was leaning. And leaning quite a lot.

So tired was the boy that he crawled to the middle of the dusty road, curled up into a ball, and fell fast asleep.

The pole swayed precariously as the wind picked up strength and speed. The cables tensed and strained to keep the pole standing.

But the wind was relentless. As if following cruel orders from an unknown entity, it suddenly raged against the electric pole, tossing it back and forth. The old and poorly maintained wires eventually gave in and, one by one, broke away and flailed at the air, a buzzing noise clearly audible and sparks flying.

The noise and wind slowly woke up the poor boy. He opened his eyes.

As the pole was tossed in his direction, the last two wires ripped simultaneously.

He slowly looked up.

The pole came down.

The sound was nightmarish and terrifying.

It was over in an instant.

Days later police were at the scene, staring at the gruesome scene before them.

Blood everywhere.

The stench of scorched flesh still fresh, somehow.

Small bloody handprints.

No body was found.