Masus fell to the ground causing bruises to bubble on his greasy skin. The jeers of laughing children howled over him as feet forwarded and added to the mass of wounds forming. Masus looked up at them, their faces gleaming with evil, gleaming with success and power, strength and might; something Masus never had, and something he craved more than life itself. A tear dripped from his grey eyes and dripped off his hooked nose, melding with a pool of blood from the lesion on his leg. Tightly, he clutched a stone in his hand, he emitted all his fears onto this, his palm sweltered.
He gripped it tight, trying to stop the pain, it didn't stop for the pain inside continued nor the pain of rejection from his peers, the awful sorrow and woe of being oppressed everywhere he went. He was the "Ghost Boy" or "The Thinning One" as they liked to mock before knocking him out cold. "You don't deserve to be here, Oh Thinning One," Screamed a young girl in pure hate, "Oh please kick him, please hurt him, I want to hear him scream like a girl." A huge kid obliged by sending a kick to his stomach. Masus clenched it and roared with pain.
"Please no," He whispered as blackness fogged his vision. "Please leave me, stop it..." He felt himself being dragged up against a wall, he could see his young pale reflection in the eyes of the boy doing it. He was an inch from Masus' face, he made a sound with his throat before spitting in his face and throwing him down again. An adult’s voice sounded, it had been there the whole time, joining in the laughter, making the wittier of the comments.
His tutor, old Mr Fisk cleared them away as Masus closed his eyes to shelter the chaos around him, he allowed himself to be physically beat again as he was brought to the headmaster for making a mess on the yard. He gritted his teeth at the echo of the cane, his face flooding with tears, flooding with pain and misery.
After school he went home. He sat, hurt, on the sofa, he dared not look around to his old mother, he dared not look at his father behind him for the shame he knew would be on their faces would drive him to insanity.
“We are disappointed son,” spoke the eerie voice of his father, nothing more than a whisper. A cold hand was placed on his shoulder, he felt its anger run through him. Masus would sooner face the beating at this point, nothing hurt him more than the dramatised shame of his parents. A single finger pointed up stairs. Masus rose and followed it, every step he took seeming like a death sentence, a sentence that was gladly welcomed. His life was like a constant interrogation, torture, only not for information, for pleasure. Masus didn’t blink once until he was safely in his room
Slamming the door he went and looked out of the window at the world he never had. He took a kitchen knife from under his bed and slashed it along his wrists, watching the blood stream from it onto the ground, his eyes flashed with passion. At least when he was alone he could hurt himself, be in control of his own pain. Another stream of tears left his spectral eyes, as the ghost boy left the world he knew for a life of the dead.
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