The darkness was a cloud of bitterness, swaying the boy, yet keeping the demon in tack with himself in a way; to say that the boy was close to death was an understatement. In fact, he seemed paler than a ghost (except for the scars and bloodstains that covered his battered back), and had so much blood loss that he couldn't move, even if he wanted to. His father smiled broadly and shamelessly, two words that ceased to go together naturally; he dragged his son slowly, making it more painful and disturbing; sad thing was, his son was awake. As he was dragged, a red trail was left behind on the mossy, damp forest floor; the boy, agony flowing through his fingertips, had been screaming so loud that his voice was now muted to his ears; of course, his father had seen and heard this all before. The gripping hatred for his father was unbearable, but there was nothing he could do about it, so instead he decided to grit his teeth, to hide from the retched cries that had clawed their way out of his hoarse throat. After being dragged for an excruciatingly long time, a small stream came into view, and at that point the father stopped dead in his tracks. Even as he was called "father", he was certainly beyond one, as a step-father. The man was tall, having naturally pale skin which had been aged cruelly, leaving red and brown blotches all around. His eyes were a piercing blue, his hair non existent; such a person seems kind, right? Wrong-- he was anything but that tarnished word. At that point, the boy's step father snickered, heaving the boy into the stream with a splash. Even though he was spread across sharp chiseled rocks, it felt nice to the boy to finally have water in his wounds, cleaning them out with its gentle current. But of course, it was just a bit cold; more or less, coldness had already shown its way through his heart, only doing so for a purpose of survival. For if he ever shown himself in a kind light to his step father, he would most likely be murdered for doing so.
