Here comes the sun Do dun do Do
Here comes the sun and I say it's alright
-Beatles
He looks at the empty room, the bed sheets spread carelessly over the floor, the curtain swaying like a young ghost, escaping the touch of the wind. He ignores the blood for a while – it's peaceful. He can't see the bodies, nor the sand. Both are unimportant anyway. Dully familiar.
But then the wind begins to make its way to the sand, and all peace is gone. He sees everything now. The boy (men no longer exist in this world. How can they when they fear a boy? Only a boy) walks to the blood, which lays scattered everywhere, almost like a complete artist's masterpiece, satisfied with sudden intricate brush strokes, accompanied only by the moonlight. But since there are no men he didn't exist, so the art is only in the boy's mind.
He walks forward, listening to his empty footsteps echo with the wind. He crouches by the art, near the bed sheet, so white that it almost looks like an elegant version of himself. There is only one thing missing. He places his hands in the blood, feeling the coolness, the wetness, closing his eyes for a moment and just breathing. He feels alive.
His eyes open and he places his hand on the white bed sheet, near the top, watching it soak up the blood, watching it accept his offering, his image. He gently pulls his hand away, looking at his art-work, waiting for the spreading to finally stop. Or maybe he's just waiting to see if it never stops.
There. Perfect. Now they are alike.
I told you not to play with my food. You have no respect for your mother, do you?
The voice is feminine, metallic, cutting through the silence. His mind. But if he weren't to be alone, if it were not for the lack of presence in the room with him, it would be the picture of a boy with red hair, dirty, lonely, smiling up at the moon, the constantly phasing moon.
And the voice continues. Losing its maternal eloquence. Becoming sinister. More familiar.
I should kill you for your insolence. But you know why that can't happen, don't you? You use it to your advantage, don't you? You know why it can't happen. Yet. Yet; yet . . .
And on and on it continues, laughing, mocking, sneering and of course reminding. Of what, the boy isn't aware.
But the little boy is untroubled at this.
He just continues to smile, alone, at the moon, while the pale bed sheet with its crimson head continues to blindly gaze at him from the floor, entering his mind.