This person

This person

Sighing over and over, this boy never had fun. This boy had wanted to be an artist and was taking a drawing class, but having been plagued by that person, the boy's hands were broken and he could not lift a pencil. And because the boy was bad with healing, he had begun to think he might never be able to draw again. The boy couldn't do much now, everything was difficult. Putting on clothes, eating, doing schoolwork. It just hurt the boy's hands even more. Luckily drawing was the last class of the day, so the boy slipped on his backpack and headed home. The boy hoped no one would chase him again. For some reason not many people liked the boy. Luckily, the boy made it safe and sound home, struggling to unlock the door with a small key, hurting his hands in the process.

Once inside, the boy put all his stuff down and flicked on the television. The boy was scared, there was someone else in the house. That person was in the house, ready to torment the boy. It would come any minute. The boy knew that person would. A new episode of a shitty cartoon was on, yet the boy had no other way to entertain himself and spend time. Homework was too hard for the boy with his pitiful damaged hands. That person came to the boy, a sickly stretched smile across that person's face. Claws dripping with malice adorned that person's callused hands. No eyes to display the playfulness and murderous intent of that person. The boy huddled up on the couch demanding to know what that person wanted.

No spoken answer. Not a single giggle or snort. That person stood there. Lips slathered with salvia twitched as the horridly pale tongue drew across them. A dead worm or carcass. How else would the boy describe that person's tongue? The boy's hands throbbed, sore. Thick tears welled up behind nonexistent walls with unspoken cruelty. Stones shattered, the wall broke, releasing a salty stream for the boy. That person cocked their head. Confusion was obviously rolling from that person. The boy gave an explanation as he reached into his bag. A sketchbook, filled with demented scribbles. Proof of the damage to the bones. Permanent damage.

A pencil was clumsily stuck into the hand of the boy. The boy struggled to drag it across the paper. A background, a forest scene. Trees held wires instead of leaves. Scraggly trunks with claw marks of animals the size of cars. Garbage littered the ground with rocks. A jagged stream ran through the background. That's what the scribbles were. The boy let salty drops hit the paper. Homework. That person watched with disgust and glee. Finishing the masterpiece, the boy stuck it into his folder and curled up again. With nothing else to mock and see, that person left the room with a few heavy stomps.

The boy whispered, "Uncle..."