A boy stands silent over his mother's cold body somewhere in
the abysmal depths of a place called Baltimore City. He smiles as his brother
clings by his side, also silent, though terrified - by the strange people
in their home, by the stillness of his mother's body, by the coldness in
his brother's eyes. His gaze cannot stay focused on one thing for too long.
Shaking, he searches for a warm, compassionate, familiar face, but finds
nothing.
The sky is dark but the stars are as luminous as ever. The moon beams down, seeing and knowing all. The moon smiles as coldly as the boy who stands over his mother's dead shell.
A woman waits outside. As well-dressed as she can manage on her small budget, she stands by the old tan car that would carry the boys away to someplace safe. Or so she thinks.
Strong hands guide the children to this woman. The boys do not bother to look into the faces attached to these hands that guide them, for those faces are meaningless to them. The eldest, the coldest of the two glances to his brother, offers an insane smile, which only frightens the little one more. But he knows his brother will not hurt him, for that is why their mother lays dead at the bottom of the stairs. All for him. All because of a hand raised in anger one too many times.
The young one still looks down as the woman gazes sympathetically upon both of them. Her look turns to confusion, almost fear, as the eldest turns his wicked smile to her. The first thing she notices are the green eyes, as vibrant as emeralds, even through the sheaf of dark hair that partially covers them. So very green that they may as well be glowing. A violent, tense color. Unnatural, but so right for the face of this child who is wise beyond his years and stronger than his size suggests. The woman tries to hide her shock from him, but she cannot not break away from those green eyes.
The boy speaks. A soft, small voice, but true and firm and perfect. "I have to stay with him," he says. "I have to protect him. I protected him from her."
The woman doesn't have the heart to tell the boy their chances of being separated are ever so great. She opens the car door for them, and they obediently enter, one after the other, still holding on as if they were interlocking pieces of the same puzzle. But those green eyes stay on her, and that smile is just as sharp.
She slides into the front seat and shakily turns the ignition. Somewhere within the inferior crevices of her brain she knows what she is doing is wrong. But social programming overrides her desire to pull over and let them go free as they ought to be, and she drives onward, taking with her two tormented souls who will only cause more pain if they are forced into the conformance brought on by the silly notion of family and home.