ll~ Too soon, Too late ~ll
He just wants to cry.
Just cry because it's all he can think of now. Cry because it's the only thing left to do. Cry because it's the only thing he's allowed to do.
Yes, it is white.
It feels as though the whole globe is dressed in snow. Like it has pulled it on, the way you pull on a sweater. Next to the train line, footprints are shrunken to their shins, trees wear blankets of ice.
He has no idea where he is. All is white, as as he heads, he can only stare at the faded lettering in front of him. To him, the town is nameless. The snow crunches under his feet as he walks and his breath catches in his chest. He pants, his guilt clutched to his chest, and he keeps on walking. He can't stop. Not now, not anymore.
A few yards away, death watches from behind a tree, and for the first time in a long time, he smiles as he sees the round boy walk away.
The steps creak under his weight as the round boy climbs them up to his house. He is plump, ten or twelve years old, and his shaggy hair is plastered to his wide forehead. Finally stumbling onto the porch, he impatiently raps his meaty fists on the old, worn wooden doors of the house.
Much to his dismay, a big woman answers the door. She is fat and beefy and her neck is hidden beneath the fat folds of her flesh. The short sleeved frock that she wears it tight and patchy and there is a sneer itched onto her mean face. "Where were you boy?" she hisses and the boy jumps back in fright.
" I went to the cem – cemetery " he stammers as he looks at the woman anxiously. It's a lie. He knows she knows, but all he can ho is hope she lets him go. " I went there to see mama and papa." He continues, and a tear rolls down his chubby cheek.
" Don't you dare cry in front of me, boy", the woman roars, and he edges even further away from her. "Get in there you ratbag!" she bellows as he pushes him inside, "and no food for a week!"
He cries that night, like he does every night, because he misses his mother. He misses his father. He misses who he was before they died. And he doesn't know what else to do. He seems to be missing himself, because the real him is lost somewhere in the whirlwind of the world and he is slaughtered everyday, bit by bit, day by day. He loses a part of him everyday. Literally.
It hurts to even move his hand, his leg, his other hand and his other leg and every other part of his body in between. He remembers his mom, who used to give him a hot cup of cocoa when he felt this way. He never understood if he drank the cocoa for his hurting limbs or the other way round and he knows he will never understand. And in this moment he waits for that comfort, for that soft voice, for those warm blankets, for that hot cup of cocoa, for that soothing touch that he is never to feel again. He waits and waits, but he never sees them, and they never come.
In this moment he feels as if he is something less and that is bad. He feels like a pest, the kind that no one wants. He feels like that shadow lurking in the dark prying on darkness, but he knows that light will come and shoo him away. He is sure light will come and he fears it, longs for it.
He curls up in a tight ball then and he lies on the cold stone floor, his back throbs with excruciating pain. He can do nothing about it however, and he cries for that as well, and he cries himself to sleep, like he does every other night.
Next time death sees the boy, it's seven years later, amidst a war. It's on a battlefield between the cries of war. The very ground beneath them shakes when the guns sound out their fury, and all anyone can see is red. The sky is red and grey, and there is a sprinkling of black across, like pepper on soup. This is the kind of place that death likes. Red. Because death finds comfort in battle, he revels in war. This is the kind of place he would want to go to every day.
Death sees the boy mere moments after he comes. He is pale and ghostlike, but the only thing that makes him human is his eyes. There are bags and circles all around them and the boy looks tired and bleary, but there is this burning passion in his eyes. Like a flame wanting to be put out. He can see anger and desperation and certain kind of need. Like he would die if he didn't do this.
Then there is the sorrow. Death has seen sorrow all around wherever he goes. To him, it's like the song at a welcome party, because everywhere he goes, it is the only thing he is met with. Sorrow, sadness, lifelessness. Literally. But this seems somewhat different. It isn't the sorrow of loosing someone beloved. It's the sadness of being forced into war, the sorrow of killing someone, with who, until mere moments, you had nothing to do. It's the sadness of being caught in a life that you no longer have the interest to live. It's the sadness of losing yourself forever. And that is the kind of sorrow that even death does not like, because it makes you lifeless.
The boy (because even after eight years of secretly stalking him, death hasn't managed to know his name.) fights with ease. So much that it even alarms death to see him, for it is rare that such a young boy fight so well. But he does it for his people, the very few that have left, and he knows that it is the only thing he is left to do.
Death knows he has overstayed his welcome, for he has to return to his job. If he didn't, death wonders, who would do it for him. Maybe that is why people like him can't take a vacation. He thinks dejectedly. But then again, neither can the people in war. Sometimes death wonders what they do at all.
A year later, they meet again. In a dungeon, where that girl is with him too. As death latches off the soul of the prisoner the boy was heartlessly beating a few minutes ago, he sees them speak. Or maybe fight. Death knows that his name is yelled countless times in conversation, but death still doesn't know, because death cannot hear. The only thing he can do is see. After a while he sees the boy stomp off.
It has become this sort of practice now, a habit. There's just something in the boy that every time death sees him, he just can't seem to look away. There is this thing in him that makes death want to follow him, see him, trace him, maybe even stalk him. Maybe it's the way he walks or the way he talks, or maybe the way he acts in war. Or maybe it's that burning fire. That flame in his eyes that makes death do fond of him. Every way, death patiently waits for the boy to die, and one day he will. Maybe too soon, maybe too late.
ll~ The End ~ll
A/n : And there it is, my last story here on FanFiction. I know a lot of you will ask me why, but all I can say is ask yourself. I know that you know the reason. So cheers mates, you have been amazing friends, and I hope you will continue to be. I'm just stopping posting stories here, but I'll still read!
If any of you want to read my stories you can follow me on tumblr (PM me for the URL)
I've had a lot of fun on here, so thank you for all that you have done for me! :D
Cheers!
Metallic Mist :)