Ok this my first time posting here...this is an opening to maybe a larger story inspired by a documentary I recently saw called 'Last Train Home'. Feel free to not hold back, just wanted to see if stuff I write is any good. Thank you in advance.
Screams of Tortured Hope
By NecessaryTruth
Yami was a dreamer; he had always been for as long as he could remember. To him the valley never seemed like a life, but rather a gateway to it. Since he was young he had dreamt of jumping into the Yung River and letting his body slowly drift in its solemn current down to Nui Lake. There he would eventually topple over the horizon in the last of the sun’s radiant warmth, which painted the sky with streaks of bloodied golden light.
There was nothing among the rice fields, which were stacked upon the valley sides that cried out for him to stay. Only the hollow emptiness of the bitter winter air lingered like a stale reminder of how alone and forgotten his village was. Even his parents had severed their sacred bond with their children and rushed off to the city, leaving him and his sister with his elderly grandparents.
This thought brought anger that rushed through his veins like a rotting wave of rage, which had been left untouched for far too long. Their faces flashed before him, sincere with empty words that dammed everything he had ever done. The annual visits of New Year brought a bitter taste to his mouth, as instead of offering words of encouragement they spoke only of working harder.
He was simply not as clever as some of the other children in his class, which was why he never was the best. He had tried to explain that no one was who they wanted to be, it was simply one of the ways of the world. At that his mother would sink into a glum face of disappointment and his father would break into a traditional violent rage, which was to be expected after Yami’s impertinence.
He let out a long breath and watched it rise into the sky before fading from existence and longed to be able to do just that. If only he could simply walk away from his life, if somehow he could be born again an orphan with no sister or grandparents to care for. Only that was a wish that he knew, even if they did come true, would never happen - he was stuck in his life with no way of escape.
Slowly he adjusted his position on the crumbling stone wall, bringing his knees to his chest and hugging them tight in a desperate attempt to stop shivering. Now only the last few minutes of light were left and the iron grip of night was beginning to clamp down upon the world. In a natural reflex his hand found its way to the picture he hid in his right pocket.
It was of a young girl, not much older than the sixteen-year-old boy who stared at her, and must have been torn from some old magazine. Beneath the dirt and the creases he could just about make out the blue eyes that held his dream. The one tiny speck of hope he could not untangle from his heart, no matter how hard he tried.
Yami closed his eyes and let his mind wonder in the dream of a life, far away from the tyranny and corruption of China. Somewhere in the skylights of London or New York where he would drive a car and wear a silk suit and leather shoes and have her by his side. She would wear a red dress and play the piano with a light touch.
Then he opened his eyes and was whipped back into the dark realities of life, complete with all the gritty dirt that clung to his clothing. His eyes fell upon the murky water of the Yung River and for a second contemplated jumping in. He would float just like that log, slowly in the comforting icy hold of the river.
He was just about to turn away and sneak off to his bed, when he caught a splash of water from the tree trunk. Another splash followed as a large branch swung up into the air and into the water again, probably as it tumbled in the current. He watched it happen again, but this time did not see the dark bark of a tree, but rather the fleshy pink of a hand.
