The pink of the sunset faded into soft blue sky as thin clouds wisps across the vastness,
A warm breeze drifted carrying fall leaves with it. Birds chirped above the small town of Orland, Completing the peaceful evening.
Suddenly the chime of the afternoon bell echoed throughout the town sending the birds flocking away. Below, Harrison Orange County High School students burst through the wide double doors, pouring out like a flood, as if eight hours of instruction had starved them of freedom.
A short, scrawny kid with curly hair and an innocent-looking face riddled with pimples was the last to walk out. He moved hesitantly, and uncoordinated, like he was afraid to place the wrong step — as if the little concrete path beneath him were lined with land mines.
He wore thick glasses that made his eyes seem twice as large, a black hoodie, worn jeans, and boots with half-eaten soles. Though the temperature sat above seventy degrees, he seemed unbothered.
He shifted down the path, glancing left, right, then left again, before letting his eyes fall to the filthy concrete. For a moment, comfort flickered in them.
Looking at the ground brought him comfort.
Counting the little rocks embedded in the concrete, he kept walking, forgetting once again that he wasn't the only person in the world. This was how he liked it. "This is safe." He would say to himself.
"Twenty-three… twenty-four… twenty-five… twe—"
His count ended abruptly when he slammed face-first into a brick wall. The impact knocked him on his ass and pain shot up his spine. Still staring at the pavement, he noticed a pair of sneakers — the expensive kind he could only dream of owning, Which pissed him off even more.
That's when he realized It wasn't a wall he walked into but A person.
Anger flashed across his face, and he opened his mouth in frustration … but shut it just as quickly, After remembering it was his fault.
Sneering down at him was John Carlos Doe — the D1-bound wide receiver for Orange County High School with his friends behind him, Jake Donner, Brock Copland, and Allen Crackston. All four of them stared at the scrawny kid like he was a sack of shit cluttering their walkway.
Whatever anger the kid had left simmered out of him, replaced instantly by fear. His gaze dropped from John's face to its permanent resting place, The ground.
The cold concrete steadied him, grounding him just enough to breathe.
"The bastard's got those thick ass frames on but can't see two feet in front of him," Jake cracked, his country accent bleeding through each syllable.
He stepped forward, kneeling down as if he were about to pet a dog. Then he lifted the glasses off the kid's face and flicked them carelessly somewhere behind him.
"Go fetch, bitch," Jake barked.
They all watched the kid like he was some caged animal at the zoo. John Doe's face stayed neutral, arms crossed, like this was just part of his daily routine. Brock looked ready to burst out laughing. Allen didn't laugh at all — he just stared, his lips curled slightly upward, a sadistic glint in his eyes. He looked like he was barely holding himself back from pouncing on the kid and beating him until sundown.
The kid knew that look all too well. Allen was the worst of the four.
He scraped together whatever guts he had and began to crawl. He didn't know how far the glasses had been thrown, but he knew one thing with certainty, if he didn't play along with their sick game, he'd be limping for weeks.
So he crawled on.
Eventually His arms started to ache.
His knees dragged and scraped against the rough concrete.
Minutes passed. The commotion drew students out of their conversations, eager for this new source of entertainment, so desperate to see another's suffering. They pointed, laughed, and one by one pulled out their phones, starting a chain reaction. Within moments, the whole crowd was recording, streaming, posting on whatever app was trending.
The scrawny kid kept crawling. He was used to the torment. He didn't care about the audience or the pain burning in his arms and knees. He lost the ability to care a long time ago. He just wanted it to end so he could go home and maybe take a nap.
He realized he'd probably crawled past his glasses minutes ago, but he didn't ask. Asking would only fuel their laughter. So he crawled on.
Are you entertained?
Does my suffering amuse you?
Why, God… why me?
The thoughts echoed quietly inside him as he dragged himself forward.
Time felt nonexistent as he crawled on. Even the obnoxious laughter faded into white noise,
The faces blurred and the he camera flashes melted away. In this moment, there was only him — alone on the concrete path.
Then he felt a tap on his shoulder.
He ignored it at first. But the tap turned into a gentle shake, and he finally stopped. Slowly, he turned his head.
someone he did not recognize stood over him.
A middle age woman — Worry etched across her face and Warm green eyes that reminded him of his mother.
"Y-yes?" he stuttered out, confused why she had stopped him.
Isn't this what people want?
My suffering?
he wondered silently.
He looked past the woman, squinting his crippled eyes as hard as he could and realized The sky was dark now and Streetlights brightened the roads.
The small town of Orlando was still and silent.
He wasn't in the schoolyard anymore but—
in the middle of an empty parking lot.
His gaze dropped to his hands scraped raw and streaked with dried blood then to his jeans, carved up like designer pants a celebrity would pay a fortune to wear.
"Ah… I did it again," he whispered, his voice flat, like this wasn't the first time he'd lost himself.
He slowly pushed himself up, wincing. The woman moved as if to help, but froze when he lifted a hand to stop her.
When he finally stood, as straight as his body would let him he noticed a small figure peeking out from behind her leg. A child. Watching him quietly. The sight made a fresh wave of shame crawl up his throat. He looked down, suddenly feeling like an inconvenience.
"Thanks for the help, miss… and sorry for the confusion," he said quickly. His response was to the point. He hated wasting time, and would feel worse if he wasted any more of the woman's time.
He just wanted to go home and close his eyes,
he gave her the warmest smile he could manage. The one he'd practiced in the mirror a hundred times for moments like this.
He knew Orland like the back of his hand. He was positive he could get home from the parking lot.
Turning away from the woman and her child, he headed toward the nearest sidewalk. At the same time, the woman turned in the opposite direction, gently tugging her lingering child along. She crossed the street and continued down her side of the road.
He noticed her glance his way and quickly sped up, not wanting her to think he was following. After a few painful seconds of fast walking, he passed her and slipped into a familiar alleyway. Home was only a couple blocks away.
Though it was later in the evening,
The shadows seemed darker.
He wasn't someone who spooked easily, but a cold chill crawled up his spine. He quickened his pace. Each step made the alley feel longer… deeper… wrong. The streetlight that should've been visible at the other end was gone.
His throat tightened.
His walk became a jog.
His jog broke into a run.
The alley kept stretching, swallowing every bit of light. The brick walls on either side seemed to inch inward, narrowing, squeezing him.
He gasped looking over his shoulder hoping to turn around, take another way home only to see pitch blackness where the entrance should've been.
He began to scream.
His heart hammered in his chest so hard he thought it would break through his ribs.
The fear mixed adrenaline had him sprinting like an olympic athlete
He sprinted like his life depended on it.
Before he could react, his foot caught on something and he pitched forward. His world flipped upside down, legs in the air, and he barely had time to brace himself.
He hit the ground hard.
A scream tore out of him as his pinkie bent outward with a sickening snap. Pain shot through his whole arm and He tumbled uncontrollably, rolling like a loose leaf until his body slammed against a light post.
Then everything went black.
No dreams.
No drifting thoughts.
No sense of time.
Just the vast void of nothingness.
Then a voice filled the void — loud enough to shake his soul, yet so faint he could barely make out the words. It wasn't male or female. It simply was.
"You are needed, chosen."
"The time is now. Fear no more, take the leap and fly."
"Stand idle and reject His call… and you will fall and die."
He gasped awake.
Cold concrete pressed against his face. The streetlight above him burned his eyes like a miniature sun. His shirt clung to his skin, drenched in sweat, and his curly hair was plastered to his forehead.
"What the hell is this day…" he groaned.
He tried to push himself up, but the moment he put weight on his hand, white-hot pain ripped through his arm. He looked down.
His pinkie was swollen and purple, the skin split open by protruding bone, blood oozing like an oil well.
His face drained of color. Nausea rose sharply in his throat.
Cradling his injured arm against his chest, he forced himself to his knees. The world tilted. His vision blurred. He stumbled and grabbed the streetlight for support, clinging to it just to stay upright.
As he tried to steady his breathing, he noticed a silhouette beneath a distant streetlight, a woman and a child, standing across the road, maybe a hundred meters away.
No… how—? That's not possible.
He pressed his good hand to his forehead.
How long was I out?
Before he could piece anything together, a hooded figure stepped out of the shadows. It moved toward the woman and child with that same unnatural, tilted gait — like a corpse trying to remember how to walk. It stopped just outside the reach of the streetlight, lurking at the border between light and dark.
"What the hell…" he whispered.
It's not my problem, he told himself as he turned away.
But then he remembered the woman's hand on his shoulder and The warmth in her eyes. The moment she stopped for him when no one else did. And in the back of his mind, the echo of that impossible voice:
You are needed, chosen.
Before regret could catch him, his body moved on its own — the pain be damned.