The jungle floor could be described as comforting, serene, even if it was covered with dark-red blood; nothing ceased to amaze the boy. They're wasn't a moment when his demon-of-a step-dad didn't try to "pull the axe" with him. Even the lengths his step-dad would go through to drag him back into his own hell were just ridiculous, but he just truly didn't want to suffer in this hell alone. The crickets chirps ringing in his ears, the dew from previous rainfall falling from damp leaves onto his dirty, pale face; he shouldn't be so calm on that floor, shouldn't have given up so easily. But it was pointless; if he didn't stop now, bleeding out would be the next big issue. Even then though, why was that a problem? To be done with the feeling of pain was like cutting the ribbon of a finish line; complete and utter peace. Then it struck him: the reason he was still alive wasn't just for his own selfish reasons, but for his mother. She didn't have the luxury of running and hiding from the demon, but only to be held prison to it; something she would call "harm", her demonic husband would call "love". After a while, she couldn't take the pain much longer, and relieved herself of it with a hand gun while sitting in their dusty, unused basement. Dried, spattered blood is still stuck to the floor boards, a distant memory as to that horrible day. The jungle floor started shaking slightly, in some sort of rhythm. Suddenly, the boy felt a soft tap to his back, something he hadn't felt in a while, and flinched. At first he thought it was an angel, one that was trying trying to help him up on his feet as a gentle gesture. When he felt a sharp tug at the hoodie of his sweatshirt, however, he knew he'd been mistaken. He gripped the moss covered floor tightly, being dragged backwards against his own will. At first he had thought it was an angel sent there to save him, but he realized... it was just a demon dragging him back to hell.
