He chokes on his own blood, grasping the bitter air and dead sky in hope of a return to normality. He stares at the figures standing before him. Their bodies are framed perfectly by the burning and destroyed buildings surrounding them. They reek of blood, all of them. It seeps from every pore and orifice in their body until all the rivers they walk are full of the unapproachable scent of death. They cry their tears into the earth, eroding the rock away until nothing but pain and suffering remain. He chokes for he must. For his lungs must die, the soot as black as the hearts of men. He stares at the figures and hopes he could “escape”. To escape pain means to bring pain down on others. To alleviate his own condition he must take. He must become the parasite of the people. But he swore never to harm and never to think again. But his lungs burn and the black dust he coughs on does not let him think. His wracking coughs spill blood into the cracked concrete below him. “Thinking” is gone now. Taken by the man who runs down that lane. He took it, and his friend is coming now:

  “Insanity.”

  ~

  He jolts up in a bed that is not his, covered in memories he didn’t make. The quilt that warms him is stitched with the etchings of love and endearment. He does not care, for he does not know of these things. He looks for clues regarding his materialization, his waking. The room is personalized, adorned with pictures of smiling, happy people. People he does not know, nor cares to know. The blood is gone. The scent is no longer in the air, everlasting and everpresent. He wonders how many times they had to scrub his clothes to get that smell out. He removes himself from the bed, walking to the frames, suddenly curious. He sees a world that is not his, not bloodied by the past or the future. This reality is not horrendous or deathly or gruesome. No one dies a sad death, alone at the bottom of a deep hole. No one will feel the pain that it, the body of the boy, has felt. He might have cried, if his tear ducts had not been sewn shut from the water they wasted. He might have wept into his hands and curled on the floor, if his soul was there. No, it was gone. Like dust to the wind, teetering and holding no ground. The decision comes, quick, and with no mirth. He must leave. Leave Hell he finds himself in, full of happy people who only know happy thoughts. They don't have to cough blood and watch their lungs fill with black soot. They don't have to see themselves in a mirror and hope they didn’t. He opens the door.

  There are people there. They stop. They stare. Seconds pass undivided. A woman who was reading a book breaks the unworded spell. “You woke up so soon!,” Her words don’t resonate in his head. They pierce into his skull and exit his skin. She continues her torment. “How are your wounds doing, dear?” An affectionate tone is one only given by those that wish to hurt you, as he knows well. His skin itches. He remains silent. “We know where they put the bodies, you were the only one still breathing. We had to do something, for what is right and just.” The woman's empty words hit the empty shell of the body of the boy. “Do you need anything? Do you want to talk to someone? We are here to help you, remember that.” He stares at her. Her lips move, and his ears feel sensation, but he lost this sense a while ago. Unfortunate. Her lips don’t move like theirs did. It tilts and opens and breathes different patterns, different codes he must decipher. Her face looks sincere. Caring and loving. He’s dealt with these people. His internal curse burns a racking, deathly cough out of his lungs. The group standing in front of the boy seem taken aback by this sickness. The woman: “W-we’ll take you to get that looked at, okay dear?” Her face’s convulsions are so sickly sweet to the boy. “Come with us. To the hospital.”

  A hand is extended to the boy from the woman. A member of the silent group finally speaks. “Are you sure this is the right thing? He might have some disease.” The woman affirms him. “That's why we're taking him to the hospital.” The boy stares at the hand, as if deep in thought. The group of happy people look at him in anticipation. He finds the answer, finally, by taking her hand. When he does, she gasps, for his hands are scarred and calloused and worn. Her breaths deepen, and she walks to the door. The boy is half dragged, half forced to stumble. His legs crumple and fold into themselves like old columns. He’s been dragged before. The outcome is never good.

  “Let’s go dear, we need you to get better.” He doesn’t want to go, so his instincts say. Reason, a rare spell, takes over his thoughts. He reasons that they might be nice and caring, as they are not of this world. His reasoning is checked over, three, four times. He decides to go.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The happy people take him to their car, a metal box with wheels. It rumbles and shakes when she turns the key. The car is clattering, it shakes his jaw and makes his brain move in his skull. In the back seat, he sees an alien world, untainted by the filth of his past. The buildings are whole, flashing by with bright neon signs and screens showing news and entertainment adorning their sides. They are tall, reaching into the sky like monoliths hailing a great beyond. Uniform in footprint, spaced evenly. There are people. Lots of people. They have nice, colorful clothes and happy smiles. They drive, and the buildings slowly become larger and larger. The car stops

  The building is a bright white, towing over with modern architecture. There are blue accents and gray windows with a giant Red Cross in the middle of the building. On the ground floor there is a smaller building, still connected but something distinctly different. The sign reads “Non-Emergency Room”, not that the boy can read it.

  Still held by hand, the pair walk to this room. The second they open the door, a hundred heads turn to them. Some lay on the floor, the lucky ones sit in seats along the wall. Their clothes are hanging on their bodies, tattered and worn. Rib cages are bright under clinical light. They hate me. A thought, at will from its host, is brought forth by the boy. They hate me for I am them, but I am getting treated better. He shivers.

  The stares. Hollow and hateful, born of strife and constant pain. He knows these eyes. His brother and sisters, metaphorically and real, have gone through the same system. Suffering and pain. The endless efficiency and faithful deficiency, all in the name of those above. The hollow echoes of a heart throb within the boy, but he does not care.

  They arrive at the reception desk, the receptionist’s eyes dull, battered and defeated. A kinship is formed to suffering, and this person has seen through the looking glass into the world of the boy. The nice woman starts by describing the boy's condition, seemingly putting an unnecessary emphasis on the scars on his body, but the receptionist seems dismissive and dials for a doctor. The woman looks for a spot to wait, but quickly stops; the seats are completely full.

  While they wait, a person moans.

  After ten minutes, a blank-faced nurse leads them down an oppressively bright tunnel-hallway to a slightly darker room, adorned with certificates of completion of a doctorate, maybe more than one. The boy’s world has no place for these certificates—they act as a testament to a world that left them behind.

  “You got him from a pile?” The woman half-flinches at the Doctor's words, as if clinicality is not the best form of speech. The boy would express mirth if his mussels could move that way, for this is the language of his world. The doctor understands. “Yes.” is the reply, half stuttered.

  The doctor grabs a clipboard. “And did you screen him for radiation or mutations? I’d hate to have to do those right now.” The boy's eyes dart to the clipboard, but he doesn’t read anything.

  “Yes, we did that first after we pulled him out. Those damn Elephants killed everyone else.” The woman’s voice raises slightly more than necessary.

  “The PRSA does a service to us all by keeping our citizens and cities free from radioactive contamination, but I am not going to argue politics with you.” The doctor turns to the boy, removes a stethoscope and puts the instrument to his ears. He slides the instruments end under the boy's shirt, against his chest. “Breath in, slowly.”

  The boy understands and complies, pulling in a slow stuttering breath that is obviously wrong, even without a stethoscope.

  The doctor pauses, leaving an empty space where words might have been said. Grabbing his clipboard again, the doctor scribbles down more notes. “This is going to cost you.”

  The woman sighs, seemingly resigned to the assignment of helping this child. Her eyes shift slightly to the left and she speaks. “My group has funds, we’ll be able to handle it.” The doctor doesn’t respond to this comment.

  The boy.

  “I’ll call for a scan, we'll see what’s wrong and try and take out whatever is blocking his airway.” The doctor sighs, wipes his brow despite it having no sweat and leaves the room, letting some of the bright light break in.

  “Are you scared?” The woman's lips shift as she says this, the boy’s eyes twitch in recognition. Her lips are too sweet, too kind. His brain flashes images of nice people he’s encountered. They all betrayed him in the end. The woman sighs because of a lack of a true response. The boy watches her eyes as they move, slowly panning about the images to papers to paintings that adorn the walls. Her eyes catch his for a moment and she smiles. A sad smile, but still nothing that resonates within the boys heart. His expression does not change, his heart pumps even.

  The doctor returns with another person, seemingly a technician of some kind, and the doctor calls for the boy.

  “I’ll be waiting!” Exclaims the woman, but the boy has already left.

  The boy will survive. The woman will not.