A new thought, a new story. Time passes, and once again I find myself drawn to the FanFiction boards. Good news, or bad news for you all? I have no clue. It all depends on whether or not you like my story. Anyway, before I get to all the formalities, I have news for you all.

You guys get to think of the title. Simply reply, and after lets say... Ten or so, I'll select one I find I like. Mostly because, for the death of me, I can't think of one.

Now, onto the disclaimer! (Which I do only at the beginning of my stories.)

Disclaimer: The only thing I own are my original characters, and the plot.

Unknown As Of Yet

Darkness, Despair, Desolation, No-one ever wishes those feelings, dreams, states of mind, whatever you wish to call them, upon other humans. However, in this world of ours, it's no dream that they exist, working their ways into those that are weak. Like me. You see, in America, the usual motto is, live off what you earn. If you make a lot, you gain a life of luxury. On the opposite side of the spectrum, if you don't make much... It's rough. The darkness envelopes you.

The darkness lifted, revealing an apartment. Torn and drooping wallpaper, left there, stained by water, and other liquids. The carpet was in no better shape. torn, and ripped in places, creating long strands of the worn, scratchy fabric. Many more stains inhabited the carpet as well, ranging in a variety of colors such as dark, metallic red, to dreary, muddy browns.

All of this was ignored by both a young, naive boy no older then five years of age, and an older, world worn woman in her early twenties. Both of them sitting at a cheap, plastic table which was, compared to the room, moderately clean. Each of them were finishing their half of a single sandwich, the only food in the home. The sounds of men, drunken, and likely high on drugs, pounded throughout the complex. One so close that they heard the man puking. The sound of his watery vomit splashing against the wall.

Both woman and child finished their sandwiches, and soon it was off to bed. Although their conditions were dire, the woman was, apparently, as much of a mother as she could be. The boy's room was sparsely decorated, with only a few stuffed toys. But his bed wasn't as run down as everything else. It seemed fairly new. She tucked him in, underneath the covers, and left the room.

As if it were clockwork, after supper, he would be tucked in. Then soon after that, the whore upstairs would lead her nightly customer to her bedroom, and the sounds of their lusty union would trickle down through the floor into his room. This was only the first of many women who would soon join in on the chorus of moans. It didn't bother him though. He was used to the sounds. The darkness enveloped him.

Years had passed, and that little naive boy had grown. He was no longer naive to his surroundings. He was with another boy, a few years older then himself, at most. They were friends, and this friend had taught him far more about his surrounding then he figured out on his own. What to do, what not to do, the people to avoid. They were close, like brothers, playing together, unless his friend was at his school. He wondered what school was, but knew he couldn't go.

They also worked together. After hearing a story from his friend, he had wanted to work, shining shoes. With help from both the boy's parents, they got fresh cloths, shoe polish, and a set of home-made shoe-shining boxes. When not playing, or at school, the boys would go to the main streets, and shine shoes. Splitting the profits equally. After which, the boy would go home, have supper, and go to sleep. The darkness enveloped him.

The boy had not changed much, showing that not much time had passed. But that didn't bar the seasons. He had been wrapped up in a grimy, worn jacket. As usual he was playing with his friend, this time near a basketball court, which was occupied. The boy was sad that he couldn't play in the court, but knew not to try.

A group of kids, older then himself, at ages ranging sixteen to twenty, were playing. They were marked with symbols upon their faces, arms, chests, and other exposed areas. Some of them even wore jewelry, from simple hoops, where their skin was pierced, to necklaces, and rings. Only bad people wore things like that. That's what his friend had said.

It would be much later that the boy would learn that groups of older boys like that were known as gangs. New to the various worlds of crime. Doing illegal things such as trafficking drugs, guns, and prostitutes, to make money. That some of their whore room were also based in the very apartment building he lived in.

It never occurred to the boy that his life, the life of his friend, and the lives of the gang mere many yards away from them would intertwine that day. It was fast. Both boys were chipping away at the crumbling pavement, seeing how far they could take the damage today. Such fun was interrupted, though, by the sound of screeching wheels. They were only able to look up, and watch.

The court was right along the street. On that street were two cars, of unknown make, colored black and red. Flashes of light were coming from the windows, and they were accompanied by a sound very similar to dragging a stick across a wooden fence. But this was much louder. He knew what it was. Gunfire. He had heard it before, of course. What person didn't, living in the slums? This was his first time seeing it though.

He couldn't remember quite what happened. But he knew he felt something rip through his body, then falling to the ground, spasming, and cringing. Immense pain slowly migrating up his arm, filling his mind with nothing but that single, searing feeling. He barely noticed the tears streaming down his face. Darkness surrounded him, with his eyes closed. He kept it that way. No longer hearing gunfire, he brought his lone, uninjured hand to his arm. It was wet, but not like water usually made it. This was warmer, stickier in a way. He had the strong urge to clamp his hand around the area, and followed through on it, sending another rush of pain throughout his body.

Everything eventually went numb, and faded from reality. The shadow of unconsciousness took away his senses, pain, feelings, and thoughts. The last of which was simply:This is... Nice. For better or worse, the darkness enveloped him.

The boys mother had always treated him like an adult, once he had started his shoe-shine business. It applied to everything in his life, be it chores, talks, work, or his teachings. Because of this, his mother was very blunt with news. So much so, that she appeared to be cold, and very uncaring, no matter how much that was untrue.

Days later, when she walked into the hospital room, with her hard, and neutral facial fixture, the boy could already tell she was going to say something. Something he didn't want to hear. Something very bad. Something he would need to hear.

In the shooting, there was a total of seven victims. Four were injured, and three were dead. At first the boy didn't understand. He knew he was one of the injured people. What did it matter if bad people killed more bad people, as well? And his friend never screamed out in pain. His friend was uninjured. He probably was the one who reported the shooting, which saved his own life. The boy said this to his mother, but she only shook her head. Her reply shattered his thoughts, and his hope.

He had been one of the dead, killed instantly by a stray bullet. At first, the sheer amount of shock, and painkiller had kept him quiet. Almost calm, in a surreal way. But in only moments the pain, based in mental realms, broke him. His friend was dead.

The uproar he caused soon brought the hosipal staff in. They restrained him, and injected a sedative into his bloodstream. Forcefully, the darkness enveloped him.