The Lost Days of Silas
A small stolen apple rested on the far side of a darkened Factory basement in Marseilles, laying silently where the boy had thrown it a few minutes ago, a dark purple bruise scarring its red-gold flesh, like the boy's heart felt now. The tears streaming down his face washed tiny streaks in his grimy face, revealing the bleached skin beneath the dirt and grim, like white scars. But the boy had no mirror to see this, nor was he watching the apple. He had his eyes closed to the horrific world that he had entered, seeing nothing but the insides of his eyelids. Darkness.
Flashes of light swept over his eyelids, the cars passing by the small hole that the boy had climbed into to get to his new home. With each flash came another image, the same two. Mother on the ground. Father with the knife in his back. Mother with the bruises. Father with the blood. Mother. Father. Each dead. Gone. Forever. And it was all his fault. All his fault. Mother! His eyes flew open to reveal his eyes. Blood-red eyes. Demon eyes.
He looked up with a questioning glance at the sky through the hole in the wall. There was no moon tonight, only the light of the passing cars. How could there be a God? How could He make me suffer so much? He made me this way, how I was born… He made my father drink so much and kill my mom. He made me a killer! He did it!!
"HE DID IT!!" he screamed aloud, not caring who heard. He ran to the other side of the room, picked up the apple and threw it with all his might to the place he had just been sitting as if to hurt the ghost that had been sitting there not two seconds before. Seeing the apple bounce off the wall, not hitting anything before it, he knelt and slammed his fists into the stone floor, pain shot up his arms and into his shoulders, the boy let out a cry of agony and let the tears flow again. The apple rolled over on its side to reveal a new bruise, this one more deep, more dark purple. White juice seeped through a small crack in the bruise.
The storm had ended. The ghost was gone.