Scott peered at his hands, on them were velvet gloves some small fur trim at the end. They would have looked more fitting on a Victorian hunter than him.
"Why do we wear the gloves Mama?" He would constantly pander his mother.
"C'est la vie, c'est la loi," She would reply wistfully.
His father never had to wear them; he seemed cranky that only Scott and Mama had to wear them.
Scott was only six. His Mama who was still very maternal got him ready for school each morning. She helped him button up his coat, tied his scarf and lastly put a small pendant on him. It was always black, sometimes it had a ghost carved into it, other times it was a skull. Still he broke it every day when his teacher hi-fived him like he did every student.
The pendant disintegrated as soon as the hi-five finished. Although he was sure his mother would be mad at him every day his mother breathed a sigh of relief every time he walked inside after coming home from school.
Scott was sure this didn't happen to other kids. They never had to wear gloves, even inside. Strange things still happened, whenever Scott touched someone while playing tag, bumping them in the lunch-line, or shaking their hand if he wasn't wearing his gloves.
They would stop stare at him them fall asleep like they were under a magic spell. If this did happen during a school day his mother would know. She always talked to him in his room and lectured him about why he had to wear his gloves.
If you take them off, they will find you she would tell him. When he was little he thought she was talking about monsters. Like how the boogeyman would come if he didn't brush his teeth. He was wrong, very wrong indeed.
This is a story about Scott, and why he's on the run.