He felt crazy and wounded when he slammed the heavy door behind him, as if it were a symbol for the sorrows he was carrying around. He always thought he could smash anything he wanted, but this time the challenge in his mind was something more physical than reality itself. The cold wind was quiet and supressed behind the trees seduced by harshness of winter, where he could not hear anything but the nocturnal animals screaming as if they were being tortured to confess a sin that they never comitted. All he had done became nothing, he had no friends, even his family was too far away to care about him.
The old man was waiting on the dusty path in the forest. He took his high-hat off. "It's a good day to be alive, sir", he said. The boy ignored him. He had already chosen his path. As he moved to the edge of heaven and hell, shades of every tree started following him in shape of people that were dead to him, as if god himself was reincarnating their blasted souls from the graveyard of his mind. The voices started talking and taunting the boy, remembering him of his lack of being anything to the world. He hated everything and everyone. Not just the people, but the cause of him becoming the person he had become. As he was increasing his walking pace, he blamed everyone, but it was not anyone's fault. He looked at the black sky; which showed no sign of moon or stars, and knew that it is the last time that he would. One of the spirits, remakably taller than the others, unsheathed her dagger, then a silence followed. A silence so loud, that the raven's unholy screech was overheard for thirteen miles of travelling above the tombstones.
