This story starts off just like any story of a man would There was a mother and a father But that is where the similarities end Who were not very much in love In a country that loved its people even less.
And of course there is Their boy who no one came to love

It was a time of war, in their country. It seemed like it always was. And there was never much to go around. But what you did have, had to be shared by all. The little boy though young in years knew this is how things were.

The boys father was a ferocious, Villainess colossal of man . Who loved his drinks stronger and taller than himself.

The mother was just the opposite. A feeble, tiny but loving women Who sadly would become the victim of the fathers dunked rages

The boy was just what you would expect a young boy to be. Who has grown up in these conditions Eyes cold and steely, His lips hard and thing and forever unsmiling. His life was filled with nothing but hatred and rage, not love and compassion as a young boys life should be.
Except when it came to his mother. She loved her boy. This would come to be the only love the boy knew.

One night after plowing the fields & weeding the crop gardens the boy stumbled home.
Weak and weary from the days work Sadly his work for the day was not over.
Tonight would be the night he found his true calling in life. But that is not how others would see it.
When he reached the streets end. He already could hear the yelling and fighting. He did not need to guess whose house the shouting was emanating from It was the same same house it always emanated from. The house he would call home for the last time tonight

Walking even slower then before kicking an old wine bottle stained purple from the juice still left in. He finally arrived at the threshold of his humble hut The yelling grew louder and more fierce then he had ever heard before.
and then...
nothing...
No screaming no yelling,
he opened the door slowly to see his father's standing over the limp lifeless body of his mother, The only person to show him any love. The only women to show him any compassion The only one who has ever shown him amount of life. Laid motionless on the floor At that moment Something clicked his little boys head. The little boy knew no more night time stories. No more sneaking him snacks when father said no dinner for you. No more patching up his favorite purple pajamas his mother made him for his birthday last year When they get ripped from working too much

No one could tell you what happened next,
How the bottle came to his hand. The same one he kicked all the way home Or how many times he swung.
The boy can not recall the thud the people in the small village described as sickening He does not remember the sound of screams, that were muddled from choking on one's blood And when it was all said and done He does not even recall changing into his favorite pj all he could recall was the color of the blood that stained the walls,
The blood mixed with the wine that was left in the bottle For to the boy it made a most majestic shade of purple. And he remembered how he felt looking down as his abusive fuck of a father, Lying there, like he had left him so many nights before.
He knew it made him feel more alive than he had ever felt in his life and he would do anything to hold on to that feeling forever

Now the people of the village knew the boy's father very well and no one blamed the boy They did what they could for him. Gathered what little, Food and money they could for the boy. They sent him out of the Village. Maybe out of love for the boy maybe it was out of pity But they all knew. It was out of fear for him It's a decision if they knew what they just sent out in the the world. They would understand why their souls are just as damned as the young boy in purple