His mouth felt dry, parched really, cotton balls couldn't raid his throat any further if they forced themselves down. Swallowing felt condemning and hurtful. Every swallow was a wince. Every wince was a twitch. Every twitch made him feel vulnerable for the long journey he'd make to quench his thirst. The irritation fondling his throat, taunting him to go at it, solve it, was hectic. Commanding was the sensation.
He would rather curl his tired legs further into his chest letting the plush duvet bury him and take him away. Let that warmth seep through and overtake his fogged mind. Let that same mind wander to a world of possibilities, fantasies, truths, and the unknown. He felt safe there—welcomed even. But here… here in the pitch black night in this home was treacherous. Having to walk from his bedroom down the forever corridor to the kitchen was a nightmare itself every thirsting night. All this just for a few sips of artic playing his tongue, then to swindle down and soothe it was bothering.
He could just keep a nice tall glass of the clear liquid on his nightstand there for his grasp, but this feeling didn't occur often and so seemed uneventful. Getting the glass fulfilled was the easy task, to an end. The walking back part fiddled his nerves like a string quartet languidly plucking his neurons intermittently, and causing a synapse of a sharp note when a misinterpreted bump goes at play in the night.
A shadow dancing spiritedly on walls was the most frightening and pulsating. But that wasn't what gave him the dreaded effect. It was the groaning the floorboards would commence beneath is socked feet. And sometimes… sometimes they would moan their complaints being tampered with late in the night. Already being a few feet away and a board would moan of their uncalled for disturbance, dishing its awakening. It felt more though like someone, or something, was lingering patiently behind him. A few paces in, they would duck; a few steps there, they would twirl into a corner; a few taps here, they morphed back into the shadows.
The darkness was a conniving one.
Sure he could let the artificial stale lights reap him from this trepidation, making the shadow cease from existence, but the potential of getting in trouble was far more crying. He should not be down here, yet his thirst was demanding. Also, he was afraid that lights on in the mid of night agitated the shadows. If the floor can bemoan its complaint, than what's constricting a shadow from doing same?
He stayed ever so lightly on his toes dancing his way across the trail leading to his safe haven, his bedroom. One misstep and disappointment would wreak. He would scurry to his room causing an orchestrated cacophony of squeaky floorboards and sounding thuds only with the end result to be scolded by his guardian… and himself. For being a coward. Cowards aren't afraid of the dark; he would deprecate himself over and over again. So he had to go through with this taking slow and steadying breaths that will help diffuse his twitching nerves.
Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, in-
Thump
What the heck was that?!
Those lulling breaths of his immediately followed with ragged jags.
His bestowed posture crumples like a decrepit building long past its time as his heart beats explosively within the confines of his chest. All surrounding sound of the quiet is instantly replaced with the rushing stream of blood roaring in his ears. He freezes as all the factors concoct into their own potent spell. He racks his dazed mind and concludes that he has not bumped into anything nor made a telltale noise. Eyes roll as much as they can search for possible familiar light, or his ears intently listening for the rise and fall of his guardian's breathes. When none is hopefully presented is when the ice cold bucket of fear lathers over the boy. He can make or break for it now.
'Cowards aren't afraid of the dark. Heroes stand through' is the impervious saying that plays in his mind.
He had been told this in numerous homes, some of the words different at that but the theme sustaining overall.
He can make it, "I can make it. I can make it." Step-by-step, copious amounts of breath and nerves bending as the seconds tick teasingly from the grandfather clock.
The clock stares at the young boy who's tiptoeing his way through a fruitless attempt. Little does the boy know the clock's pendant tsk away at the boy's naivety. Only if he knew.
It is then, unfortunately, the wind whispers to the curtains telling of the night's events, but the boy misconceives this and instead thinks of the evilness that lurks. He glances over and sees the curtains dancing away from the wind. The ice from the secrets the wind holds feathers itself across his skin, causing goosebumps to rise. It's very biting—all the secrets the wind holds. The windows weren't opened when he came down. He knows because his eyes were swerving constantly at all his surroundings when he came down. This could get him in trouble; moreover it could get him kicked out for not obeying his guardian's rules. He was doing fine so far, no need to disrupt anything.
He went astray from his original path and made way to shut the window. Discreetly that is. While closing it a scene caught his eye. The sky looked like an ocean of midnight blue that you could drink heavily from with the stars crystalizing like the twinkle between eyes hard to seek, but there. Or the glimmer of pure cut diamonds falling dramatically on the ground in a ballroom with all the lights center staged on it. The moon shone brilliantly exhibiting its visible craters. Something the boy could relate with from all the craters in his heart that are there and still forming day-by-day.
The scene was such clarity and captivating that the boy didn't notice something going on behind him.
Fingers wanted to reach out and delicately touch the heady ocean sky to create ripples felt throughout galaxies for his amusement. Instead though he stood there leaning against the windowsill admiring the view for what is was. It reminded him somewhere mythical where anything was possible and tangible. Where up is down and down up. Where when you do touch the sky it shivers rippling for decades. Where the weak are the strong, and the strong the weak. Where judgment, bullying, societal norms, etc. is nonexistent and your social class is never once used as a pedestal. Where respect is given for your ingeniousness and envied for. Where people will love him—love you—for who he is—who you are—what he is—what you are—what he will be—what you will be for life and forevermore. That right there is what dreams are made of: the unimaginable, the freedom, the never ever.
Warmth fuzzed all over his body now feeling abuzz. He was so caught up in the inevitable that he again failed to hear a floorboard that never creaks moan its complaint.
Oh what a wonderful gift it would be to go somewhere like his dreams. Neverland! Wonderland! To far far away! Was that even a real land? That doesn't matter, he shook his head, and anything is feasible if you put your mind to it… anything. Just imagined if he could fly in the sky parting the clouds through as he rushed by, like Peter Pan. Having the air charge at him as it tousles his hair feeling the breeze run wild on his scalp.
The boy's veins started to feel a buzzing feeling, the one that you get when the magic of alcohol releases itself. Yes, that would be a dashing feeling! Sunrays radiating on his pale skin soaking him in, enclosing him into an orb of positivity and light. He can see it now: him levitating off the ground gliding to here and there, witnessing things never meant to be seen like fairies, goblins, griffins, mythical and magical creatures like satyrs and fauns, water and tree nymphs, centaurs, mermaids, all of it. Oh, what a sight indeed! Already it was mid of night and now he's feeling giddy from foolish nonsensical things. But that doesn't matter, he's a kid—you're a dreamer—let him have it.
Realms, different worlds, universes, galaxies, the diversity of it all. Now that right there was a life worth of adventuring and venturing, damn the consequences. All of this, all of this was accessible through the basic idea of them all… magic. Everywhere it's dismissed from the absurdity and ludicrous of it. Everywhere that it is dismissed from the foolishness of it and so forth is from the lack of magic.
He believes. He believes there is something greater at play.
Something not to feel small, unimportant, mundane, and just another statistic. He would give anything to be part of that world, life even. Yes! This could all happen if he just knew where magic could be found.
Though, he doesn't.
There was no proof for this sprinkle of creativity, nothing to tie its origins to. Just a word it was. Just a thought this tragedy of a world needed to cope for the sins it bathes in. Nothing, it was nothing, he should head back to bed, to stop thinking of this hokum and head back to the crappy way of his life. He should just be happy that there is a bed to him and a guardian not willing to lay a hand on him… as far as he knows. Yeah, that sounds good.
Just let everything he thought of run rampant in his dreams. Dreams that will only last mere minutes before he wakes up to nothing: no parents, no family, no friends, just blank. He sighed; guess it was a good time to turn in.
Feet shuffled away from the window simultaneously turning around. The boy's mood was downcast now which did not help with the sinking feeling his stomach was forecasting.
Screw it! He was just going to make a ru- jog for it. Running could get him in more trouble than he can ponder. As soon as his other leg made a reach for the second step is when it happened. A static pitch black hand, incoherent at that, covers the boy's mouth as the other grabs at his chest clutching onto the thin, second handed material the boy donned.
Chills rolled all over across his body as if he just unwillingly plunged into artic water. A childlike shriek intertwined with high pitched scream shrills in the house, but is heavily muffled. The boy is paralyzed with fear already whimpering the thought that he's close to wetting himself. One single tear travels down his cheek with him thinking that this must be the end for him.
He is aware of what happens to kids like him, foster kids being snatched in the night and held for ransom either becoming servants to scary people for a number of reasons or being a corpse six feet under just cos someone thought it doesn't count as a murder if the kid didn't have a family. Although no one can see it, blackness was wrapping over the boy's body making him shiver hysterically by the beat.
The last of what he does is wishes….
Wishes that whoever gave him away is happy he's not there to be a burden over.
Wishes that wherever he is going will be magical and happy and lively like his fantasies, cos all he expects is death.
The last thing of that he wishes, of which he has no idea he is doing, so it must be subconsciously, is that the stranger sitting at the top of the stairs at least looks for him.
Like the title is when I wrote this, though it was spaced and not meant to be shown but what the hell. It was creepy writing it too literally dead smack in the night with no lights. As far as I know it's a one shot, but my thoughts are differing on that, so it'll stay incomplete for safe measure. If I were to continue lemme just tell you that Narnia, HP, Lotr, and other magical and mythical stuff would have to be read by me so this could be... idk, that's how much potential it probably has. I can't recall a Fantasy/Suspense story, so... Don't give your hopes in though, just keep an open mind. So! What did you think? Like it, love it, hate it? :( Or is like why am I stopping there?! I know, I didn't even see that coming. Review please! ;)