Don't forget your

Make believe

Maple leaves.

The boy loved to dance. He also liked to sing. If he could, he would dance and sing the whole day away, safely tucked within the confines of his own imagination. Twirling around and around, without a care in the world, not a single worry to weigh him down. He could unfurl his wings and fly, fly away into the sky and never come back. He would sing to the flowers, he would dance with them, and they would never be lonely.

(Nobody would ever be lonely.)

He would be able to make people smile, he would make them laugh. Everyone would be happy without a single care in the world. No worries to weigh them down. Nothing to stop them from flying away. He would show them what they had been missing; he would take them to completely new worlds. He would bring them somewhere far, far away. Somewhere deep down, tucked safely within the confines of their own imaginations. And they would be happy. Everyone would be happy.

(Nothing to stop them from flying away.)

He would show them how to dance, he would sing all day with them. They would sing and dance the whole day, safely hidden inside their imaginations. They would be able to play and cheer, and not have to worry about tomorrow. They would be able to see what their actions did, and then they would understand, He would show them.

(He would make them understand.)

In an endless white expanse, the boy twirled and pirouetted. He gracefully hopped and whirled across the plane, his voice filling the air with melancholy. The flowers swayed with him, pale pinks and blues and yellows gently rocking in waves. If they had wings, they would fly away with the boy, and take him away from reality. They would make him happy.

(The flowers would take him away.)

Without warning, the ground beneath the boy and the flowers jolted, and he lost his footing. His ankle twisted the wrong way and, with a yelp, he fell to the ground with a thud, ripping the air right out of his lungs. With a groan, he put himself back on his feet, only to have the ground pulled out from under him, and his world blinked into black. He couldn't see anything. He couldn't hear anything. He couldn't move. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Something wasn't right.

(What was going on?)

Turning his head, and blinking his eyes, just to make sure they were open, he attempted to look around himself. This soon turned out to be a fruitless venture, for he doubted he would be able to see his own hand in front of his face, could he move. The blackness covered him uncomfortably with a sense of unease, like a thick and heavy blanket, all too eager to suffocate him. It pushed on his chest and covered his ears, smothering all sound, if there was any to be heard.

(What's happening?)

Suddenly, the air's temperature around him plummeted, sending a sharp and painful chill into his core. One moment. Two. The boy gasped and flinched, his heart alight with a searing, agonizing, cold. His face scrunched up as he tried to catch his breath. His fingers went numb and twitched, and his chest heaved for air it couldn't grasp. His eyes opened and his head throbbed with the beginning of a headache. His breaths puffed in front of him, and he was thankful for being able to see it. But he was desperately afraid of the cold coming back.

(Cold...cold...it's too cold.)

His chest convulsed as another flash of pain erupted in his heart. His throat burned and his lungs ached, they wanted air, but there was none to be had. His eyes slowly inched open, and he took in a breath. He could see around himself and he could move, but he quickly found himself preferring the painful cold of the black world. His nose was filled with the stench of rotting flesh, and he gagged as he choked on the taste of blood in his mouth. His head was throbbing and his limbs ached. Where was he now?

(What happened to the flowers?)

The boy sat up and looked out on the land, if you could call it that. Corpses. Human corpses. Everywhere he looked. Dead. Dead. Dead. His throat closed up and he walked over the nearest body. Kneeling by its head, he watched for breathing, because don't humans breathe if they are alive? Nothing. No rise and fall of the body's chest, no twitching of fingers, no one jumping up into the boy's face shouting that it was all a joke.

(What happened to them?)

The boy peered at the dead man, and the dead man blankly stared back. The man's face was contorted in horror and fear, and the child did not overlook the holes in the body's chest and head. A broken gun lay discarded, useless, beside him, and blood soaked the ground and his- what the boy assumed was green-uniform. It did not take a genius to guess what had happened. Silently, the boy frowned and closed the man's eyes. He adjusted the uniform to look neater, and closed the man's mouth, making him almost look as though he were sleeping, and would wake up any moment. The boy looked at his hand covered in blood, and left it alone. He had no way of cleaning it off, and he didn't want to soil his dress. With grace, he danced around all the bodies, and filled the disgusting battlefield with melancholy.

(He felt bad for the land.)

He pirouetted through the bloodstained air, and leaped over bodies and weapons, slicing the eerie silence with his voice. Finally, the boy's path was blocked by an enormous, bulky...something. He did not know what it could possibly be. The exterior was a gross brownish color, but upon closer inspection, he guessed that at one point, it was gray. It had straight, broken, and burned wings, and looked to have some sort of compartment with glass on the top. Under the wings were empty holsters, except for one, which held a bomb in its clutch. The word War Plane flashed through his mind, but he found himself confused by it. What in the world was a war plane? This, apparently, his mind seemed to tell himself. Shrugging, he danced around it, continuing his singing as if he had never stopped at all.

(Funny, how things work.)

A familiar chill soared into his heart, and he wavered, tripping and falling on his front. Before he reached the bloody ground, the world blinked back into the familiar white expanse he knew as his safe haven. Then his body connected harshly to the ground. He lied there for a few moments, regaining his bearings, and pulled himself to his feet. He has never fallen this many times in one day before.

(Has it really only been a day?)

Pulling his arms close to his person, he carefully stepped out among the flowers. They cheered and waved at him and he smiled back. He was okay. Albeit being dirty, cold, scared, and sore, he was absolutely fine. The flowers rustled and hugged his ankles, and their soft, pale petals slid comfortingly across his skin. His heart slowed down and the boy let go of a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. The boy lied down among the flowers, sighing and closing his eyes. They patted his legs and egged him on to dance and sing. They whispered sweet nothings into his ears and caressed his face. He was okay. He was back where he belonged.

(The sweet and seductive confines of his imagination.)

He opened his eyes and nearly screamed. Right in front of his face, the two of them sitting forehead to forehead, was a girl. He noticed she had hazel eyes. He saw that she was wearing a white dress and black leggings. He saw that she was wearing red shoes. Her long light brown hair fell in curls around her pale face. He couldn't help but find himself wondering who the girl was.

(Once upon a time, there was a child trapped all alone in their own imagination.)

The girl stood up and pulled the boy up against her body, hugging him to herself tightly. Too tight. It seemed to the boy that she was afraid of him disappearing. He felt light headed and dizzy. To him, it felt more like he was watching someone else be placed on the ground by the girl. Like someone else's eyes were drooping. His world snapped into focus as the girl picked a flower and placed it behind the boy's ear. He wanted to protest. He wanted to tell her that she shouldn't pick the flowers. He wanted to say the he's never picked the flowers before. He wanted to tell her all these things. Instead, his mind slipped away from him and his eyes fell close. His breathing evened out and his head lay limply in the girl's lap.

(And this child was a young boy with limp, feathery wings.)

When the boy woke up, he found himself sitting up against a tree. Alone. There has never been a tree in the expanse, but the boy wasn't complaining. The shade was gentle on his eyes, and the coolness offered wasn't painful. Only slightly there. A few moments later found the girl running up to the boy, with flowers woven together in her hands. She made a flower crown for him. Placing it atop his head, he wanted to protest. He wanted to tell her that she needed to stop picking all the flowers. He wanted to hand it back to her and apologize, but he found his limbs heavy and weak. His eyes were slowly drooping shut and the lethargic boy could do nothing as he slipped away once more, thinking about the girl, and how she should stop picking the flowers.

(Only, the boy wasn't as alone as he thought he was.)

When the boy awoke again, he still felt lethargic and heavy, and his legs felt stiff from not being moved. He was still against the tree, and the girl beside him. He turned his head, and watched her. She was fiddling with something. Flowers. The boy felt a great surge of weakness settle into his bones, and his body felt even weaker. He wanted to shake the girl, yell at her. Stop, stop, stop it! She had to stop picking the flowers! Noticing that he was awake, the girl smiled at him and giggled like she had done no wrong. She placed the flowers in a pocket on the boy's dress, and pulled him to his feet. She dragged him out into the expanse of white nothingness, and pale pastel flowers. He stumbled and his knees buckled, sending him crashing into the girl's chest. Thankfully, the girl was still holding onto him, otherwise he surely would have fallen onto the ground.

(Nor was he as alone as he wished he was.)

The girl took the boy's delicate, limp hands and put them on her shoulders, as she placed her own around his waist. Pulling him close and holding on tight, should his legs fail to hold him up again, she swayed gently with him. The girl turned them in circles, dancing slowly with the boy. She smiled as his fingers twitched, and his eyes sharpened a bit. The boy seemed to at least understand where he was, and what he was doing. Her smile widened and she picked up the pace, gracefully twirling the boy and dipping him below her, and pulling him back up.

(Because within his own imagination, was a very real girl.)

The children continued to dance and dance, and the boy weakly started to sing. The girl smiled at him and pulled him closer, twirling him around once more. His voice gained strength, enough that it was able to drift through the flowers, and caress their petals, as they once caressed his cheeks. His voice flowed to tree, and wrapped it in his song, forcing it to regret. The song swirled around the pair, and swam through the girl's veins. It filled her heart with melancholy, and she felt like crying. Blinking her eyes, she twirled the boy again, and swayed with him.

(And this very real girl made very real problems.)

The two stayed glued to their spot, swaying softly with one another. The boy's eyes had clouded over and his head lay limply in the crook of the girl's neck. The girl Held the boy close as they sank to the flowery ground. The pale pastels screeched and yelled at her. Let go! Let him go! Can't you see that you're hurting him! The flowers scratched her knees and rubbed circles into the boy's ankles. They threw themselves against her; let go! Go back to where you came from! GO BACK TO REALITY!

(...cold...too..cold…)

The girl laid the boy's head carefully in the flowers, and stood up. She turned on her heel, chancing one last glance at the boy, and ran over to a window that the boy had never noticed before. A window that the boy doesn't want to notice, and so he never shall. She climbed out and it slammed shut behind her. Flowers close by locked it and shattered it for good measure. Now the boy could stay in his imagination forever. Where there is only himself. Only himself and the flowers.

(...)

The boy's eyes opened until they were half lidded. Turning his head to look at the tree, he whispered to it. And in a flash that was barely there, it vanished. The boy's green eyes turned to the empty, white sky. The flowers played with his brown hair and kissed his cheek. He smiled at where the tree used to be. Or, rather, was there ever a tree at all? He thought of the girl who picked the flowers, and he thought of the dance that they shared. Dreaming of dancing girls who picked flowers and giant white trees that sprout from nowhere, he giggled to himself.

(Don't forget your make believe maple leaves.)