A boy, with messy dark brown hair, about age nine, sat on the nether brick fence, his legs swinging back and forth slowly, as he looked out over the lake of lava, breathing in the smell of smoke and decay. The light of the pulsating firely fluid caught his face, illuminating it, and his icy blue eyes. He looked out over the deathly liquid, to a rectangle, made of a substance, his father told him was called obsidian. He squinted to see the purple swirls, snaking their way around each other, glowing brighter now, as something started to emerge.
He grinned, leaping up from his seat on the fence, and running to the entrance to the stronghold, where he had been told is as far as he could go. The nether was a dangerous place, he was never allowed to leave the stronghold.
He leaped up, to peek through the door, just as a man in a black cloak reached the doorway. He opened the door with a simple gesture, walking through, and, this time with his hands, slamming them shut once again. He turned to look at his son, looking up at him happilly, glad his father was home from his job.
The boy was innocent though, he had no idea what type of job his father had and knowing would break his heart. He always saw his father as a role model, someone to look up to.
The father shut off from the words that poured out fo his son's mouth, as he happilly spoke of the day. Of how he had waited for ages after his private lessons had ended, on the fence for the return of his dad.
Then came the question the child always asked upon the father's return, "When can I go to the overworld?" He asked it so sweetly, so innocently, expecting the usual reply of 'When you are older.' Today though, the father had cracked, the countless time this stupid kid had asked him that, he turned, his white eyes glowing with hatred, "NEVER" He roared back, slapping the child across the face. "You can never go there, ever!"
He was crying now. Big fat salty tears gushing down his face. A normal parent would have stopped, but this man had not self control, no empathy, no emotions, and so continued yelling and hitting the poor boy, until he ran to his own room, clawing his way up the stairs.
He got to the huge room. It was expensive, but there was no love. Nothing personal. The boy didn't know about special things, things that meant something important. So he collapsed on the cold plain bedsheets, staining them with his tears, as he shuddered and wished for a different father.
A different life.