Disclaimer: I do not own The Book Thief. God, a.k.a, Markus Zusak owns it. You cannot defy God, or he shall smite you. I was only lucky when he didn't notice me spit on that church… ((a small note – I'm actually an atheist.))
-x-
Your skinny fingers claw at the icy earth, leaving stains of frozen blood on the blanket of snow. You're broken – – and sinking into a frantic despair. He couldn't die. It was only a cough. A stupid cough!
He's not dead, not dead, not dead, dead, dead, dead--!
A bony hand lies gently down on your shoulder with tender understanding, and before you know it, the hand is pulling you away. Away from the small boy buried ten-or-so-feet underground. Not dead, Goddamnit! A scream fills your throat and you're consumed by a wave of agony. You're already choking on hot tears as you're dragged from the grave.
A six-year-old boy lies on a train platform, staring after you, his rusted blue eyes forever fixated straight ahead.
-x-
Small drabble… attempt at a small drabble… failed attempt at a small drabble… but hey, I still like it. Critique?