He sat in the dark, thinking of bright colours. They danced and swirled in his head, creating their own patterns to music the boy made from broken glass and empty bones. The music was sharp and hurt him, the pain lacing up his broken arm and bruised ribs. He didn't notice the dark closing in on the edges, and suddenly the colours faded together with the pain, and the boy felt no more.

Johnny woke up huddled in the corner of a large basement, filled with ruined furniture and dust. He was absently flexing his fingers, and looking around. His arm had healed over the night, and only a dull ache remained. He didn't leave the corner though; he was too scared to move. In every shadow something invisible lurked, something beautiful and terrifying. If he moved even the tiniest bit it would see him and break him, beat him and cut him so all the precious red flowed away useless onto the floor.

He saw traces of too bright colours slithering along the floor and heard whispers from yesterdays, and couldn't help but try and catch a waning sliver of golden floating close by. As the colour drifted through his finger and faded he heard the floor boards above his head creak slightly. Two wide eyes in a pale face stared at the ceiling wishing the noise away. The things in the shadows that had been reaching for him made a slippery sound as they left.

An arm still outstretched, reaching for colours long gone, trembled in fear, but the steps upstairs disappeared, and he heard the slam of a door. Snatching back his arm he tried to meld into the wall, to disappear in the stone. He could feel the cold cement grating against his skin and he could feel the solidity and safety the wall taunted him with. In his mind the wailing started again. His head was filled with screams and not understanding why. Why had he woken up dead one day, why had his heart stopped beating?