Running.

There were tears in the boy’s eyes. His vision blurred, his face red from the anger and the hurt building in his chest, and the merciless strike of his father. His feet hit the ground, a repetitive echo of thuds as he ran, branches hitting his shoulders and his cheeks. “We do not look at our own that way.” His mother’s voice rang in his head. He wouldn't stop running. “Why couldn't you just be normal?” The disappointment in her face was imprinted in his memory. He couldn't stop running. Not that he wanted to. He wanted to run. He wanted to run away from the tall blue house that held his parents and their deep discontent; he wanted to run away from the trembling walls that buckled at his father’s roaring voice. He wanted to run through these woods, sobbing violently, fists shaking at his sides, taking long strides to reach a destination he didn't know he was aiming for. But sure enough, the woods stopped. The boy came to a clearing, a small stream that swept him off his feet and caught him in its open arms, soaking him and bruising him further. He let out a sharp cry as he slipped, feeling a rock lodge itself in his arm. He could feel the warmth of the blood that now trickled down to his elbow, similar to the flow of the water at his feet. He couldn't see anymore, his vision distorted by the film of liquid agony, his tears cool against his boiling hot face. He could feel himself trembling. Why couldn't you just be normal. He wasn't a monster. He wasn't vile the way his father had said he was. Just be normal. It wasn't his choice to see his friends that way. He couldn't help the fact that he cared about them that way. Normal. Sobbing violently, his whole body steadily quivering, he could hear his father’s screaming as his mother tried to calm him. “Keep that vile f****t away from me!” He could feel his body going numb, the blood in his veins bubbling with fury, but his body too weak to feel anything but the hurt. “That boy is no son of mine.” Why couldn't you just be normal? Every slur, every bitter piece of his mother’s voice, every echoing shout of his father, it all built up until he had enough. He let out a cry of his own, shrieking to the sky, howling in pain; the pain in his chest from all the anger, the pain in his head from crying so hard, the pain in his arm and the blood streaming over his dusty elbow, the pain in his ankle that was undoubtedly twisted from the fall.