The Boy, and his Space.

While only 15 years old, the boy had a soft spot for literature, and for writing, sitting at his house volunterrily on a regular basis, typing odd quotations and small rhythms that went along with his attitude, either at the time, or in the long run. He was a quiet boy, at school anyway, but away from that land of hateful oppression, he was a hero, a boy to look up to when trouble came, and not to mention a big brother.

It was a sore day of his, when his help was needed most, go figure, i suppose. He was needed to help his brother with his awesome fears, and yet, he turned the boy down.

That weekend, the 15 year old boy was confronted by the worse figment of his imagination, who screamed to the boy about his responsibilities, and the boy followed, and went to his death the next day, after tripping, and hitting his head on a cinder block.