Let It Burn

1 - A Boy In The Dark

¨You little— Who do you think you are, talking back to your mother like that?¨

¨What's so wrong about asking your mother to cut your hair? I look like a girl!" he yelled. He glared up at his mother from his place on the floor, but didn't change his position.

"Well you've been falling behind on your work, so there's no way you're getting rewarded with a haircut. Just—" she growled, pulling a hair tie off her wrist. She threw it at the boy. "Tie your hair up and get back to work."

"I don't know how to use this!" he yelled as she started to make her way to the door.

She whipped around. "I did not raise you to act like a fucking dumbass, Haydn. Figure. It. Out."

Haydn's mother stomped out of the room, slamming the door behind her. The lock clicked violently, and Haydn listened to his mother, Victoria, rage and curse out in the hallway. He looked down at the feminine product he now held. His reddish brown hair fell just to his shoulders, which was more than long enough to become a nuisance.

In the dim light of the magic lamp floating above his head, Haydn twisted and pulled until his hair was out of the way. When he moved his head in certain directions, he felt sharp pain as his hairs were pulled.

After he was semi-satisfied with his result, Haydn came to a realization that his fingers were bleeding. He moved his hands over to the healing stone, but it was just out of his reach. He crawled towards it, but the shackle on his ankle held him back.

He sighed quietly. The blood wasn't from his hair tie, or at least, not entirely. His mother forced him to sew clothes for her and her comrades. However, even with his very many years of experience, he was still clumsy with his hands. His hand was filled with miniscule puncture wounds from the sewing needles. He had developed immunity to many common infections early on in life, for his fingers had been exposed to several different types of bacteria throughout his life.

The clock on the wall read ten o'clock at night, so for two more hours, fourteen wounds were inflicted and one shirt was completed. But the boy was only human, so his eyes eventually refused to stay open. And that night, he dreamed the same dream as always: Escape.

***

"Up. Get up." The voice was cold and brittle, and Haydn barely had the chance to open his eyes before the words were repeated and reinforced with a fierce kick to the shin.

"Get up!" Victoria shouted.

"I'm awake! Did something happen?"

"Yes, something happened, and it's all your fault. Also, why haven't you healed your hands?" Victoria asked.

"I can't reach the stone," Haydn said. Victoria held her hand out, then the healing stone flew into Haydn's hands.

"So anyways, yes, something did happen. It's your fault, too. So I accidentally let it slip to a friend of mine that I have a child, and as luck may have it, she has a child around your age. I tried to turn down her offer, but alas, you've got yourself a play date."

"But ma'am, I don't have anything to wear," Haydn said. His typical attire was nothing more than a white t-shirt and basketball shorts. Magic kept the clothes clean, but it didn't keep them from becoming threadbare.

"I've got it worked out. Just start working for today and I'll come get you once it's near time to go."

Haydn nodded, and the door slammed shut as his mother left. He meekly glared at the needle and thread, as well as the fabric he was working with. It was a thick leather, so working with it was difficult.

A good two hours later, the door opened and Haydn's mother entered the room with a gray tee-shirt and a pair of blue jeans. She bent down to him, and brandished a key from her pocket. She inserted the key into the shackle around Haydn's left ankle, then handed him the clothes.

"I'll be waiting outside of the door, come out as soon as you're done changing. I have shoes upstairs," she said coldly. Haydn nodded.

He changed swiftly, then wobbled to the door. Haydn had always been weak, but he was terrible at walking simply because of his lack of practice.

His mother said nothing as he tripped out of the room. The jeans covered where the bruises from the shackle was, but Haydn had an obvious limp. His mother sighed, then outstretched her arm to his leg. Her palm glowed, then he stopped limping.

"Come, we mustn't be late," she snapped. Silently, Haydn followed, wobbling as he made his way up the stairs for the first time in three years.

The car they got into was white. Haydn peered out the window at the forests around him. He felt something that he couldn't quite name, but the closest word he could think of was nostalgia. It had been a long time.