Leslie Withers had always been a healthy little boy. Since the day he was born, he was always a bundle of joy and laughter. He was admired by anyone who met him. He was albino, but everyone who he met seemed to look past that and really get to know him. He never was the morbid and crazy boy that many people had seen him to be. They made him out to be a careless troublemaker, when really he wasn't. He did what ever he needed to fend for himself. The world was never nice to him, especially what happened to him at such a young age.
He was walking home from the bus stop after a day at school. He was still in 2nd grade, and his brother was supposed to walk him home from there, because he gets out earlier from middle school. He was most likely knocked out asleep on the couch, head buried in homework. He walked through the small woods to get to his house. He loved taking this path to get both to and from the bus stop. The tall trees, the wild flowers, and the occasional deer or buck prancing along. He was more than captivated by it, but then the peaceful silence had been broken and he heard a loud pop. He could only assume that it was the high school boys next door firing their BB guns at the birds again, and he didn't need any part in that. He continued to walk home and continued to hear those pops that now started to sound like bangs. He started to get a tad bit nervous at that point, because he could see flashing lights in his own house after each bang. He ran inside his house, the door being left open, and seeing nothing but red. Red flooded all throughout the house. There were pools upon pools of the metallic smelling substance. He heard one last bang, which made him fall to the floor in shock. The sound rang through his ears and made him shake. He ran for the stairs, the source of the sound. His father was standing in front of his mother, her body lifeless. He gasped in disbelief. That wasn't his mother on the floor. He kept repeating that over and over again. His father wasn't a murderer, was he? This had to be a dream. He was still asleep somewhere. He was still on the bus asleep, or in class asleep. He wasn't home! It couldn't be real. But there he was, and it was real. His father looked at him and pointed the gun at him.
"Dad, what are you doing?!" He was speechless at that point, watching his father. He looked up to his father, he wanted to be just like him, and yet here he is, his wife in front of him, dead.
"This is all your fault. And you know it." His finger was ready to pull the trigger, but it didn't. Instead, it changed targets and pulled it on himself. Leslie screamed as the blood splattered and some found it's way on his face. His brother was nowhere to be found, where was he when he needed him the most? Their parents were dead, and there was no way to fix it. He collapsed on the ground and curled up into a ball.
"It's not my fault... Not my fault... Not my fault..." He whispered it over and over as his tears seeped into the carpet. He heard knocking at the front door, but he could care less about that. His parents were right there in front of him, the life escaped from their bodies, and never to return. The knocking at the door started to get a little bit more ferocious and he sobbed only louder. The door opened with a loud bang, and he heard footsteps ascending the stairs. He already knew that they were the police. There was no way that those gunshots wouldn't have reached someone or another with how close the houses were. The police saw him on the floor, and all of the blood splattered around the house. They automatically thought that he had done it, but he was just a little boy, what reason would he have to kill his own family?
"Little boy, what happened here?" One officer asked.
"Not my fault... Not my fault... Not my fault..." He didn't stop saying it. The officer bent down and picked him up from off the ground and carried him outside to where he could only see flashing blue and white lights outside his house. He was set inside a car and was taken to the police office.
That was years ago. That trauma followed him until he was 11 years old. He had nightmares and hallucinations that his father was still right there in front of him, the gun pointed at his head. After the police pieced together what had happened, they moved Leslie to an orphanage, where he only stayed there for a couple of weeks until the headmistress had figured out that Leslie was suffering from his psychosomatic trauma. She called as many hospitals and hospices as possible, but none would take him in. But, one afternoon, a man named Valerio Jimenez called about Leslie and offered to take him in his hospice and hopefully, get him back to his normal self. He had claimed multiple times that he had done it before, but it wasn't justified. She didn't want Leslie to suffer anymore in the home. Valerio was sure to take good care of him.
