The Boy with red eyes

"Ring- a, ring-a, rosy, pocket full of posy..." innocent children's voices leaked through his barred window. The window that stopped him from escaping. One that imprisoned him, won't let him get out, because they thought he was crazy. He was. He looked out of the dusty glass, then walked across his room and slumped on his chair, and ran a hand through his black, black hair, the colour of ashes. "Ashes, ashes!" the demented voices floated through his head. He looked around his tiny cell-like room. His bed was perfectly made, the dresser in the exactly right place, the chair he was sitting on, the room he had been living in for 4 long years. His eyes then landed on the mirror. It was round, it had inscriptions that were impossible to read around the sides of it. He knew what they meant, even though, "You don't need to pretend to die to die, and if you are looking in this mirror right now, you are going to a place much worse then all your nightmares". But most importantly, it was new, new enough to drag him out of the haze of his life. He looked at his reflection in the dirty glass. His sunken cheeks, thin mouth, hostile expression, and his pale, pale skin. But then he looked at his eyes. Red, like blood. Red, like fire. Red like anger. 4 years ago his parents had been taken by Black Death. He remembered. He remembered the doctors, with their bird masks and rasp voices. He remembered his sister, her chest heaving with sobs. She had been 9 then. He remembered how she kept crying, tears rolling down her cheeks, and then her sobs started to die away. 

He gripped his chair, knuckles white, breathing heavily. He imagined the memory as vividly as if it was happening right now. That day. The day the his sister pulled out a knife and smiled. Then she giggled like she was holding her dolls. He remembered. How she stroked the blade like it was her pet, how she gazed at it like it was the most precious thing in the world. Then she looked at him. Her eyes were hollow and empty and black, like his Before. Before blood, Before hurt, before death. Before somebody plunged a dagger into his chest and grinned. Some one he loved. Before everything. He stared at the mirror his eyes glowing red. He opened his mouth to wail, but he chocked out a laugh instead. His lips peeled back into a smile, revealing teeth that had rotted long ago. He got up like he was in a trance and touched the mirror, and a rush of painful memories pricked at his brain. He gasped. He was crying, black tears streaming down his face. All traces of a smile had disappeared from his face. Black, black, all black, like the Black Death. 

His palm touched the glass, his uncut fingernails scraping against the glass. His other hand when to his chest, and his hand gripped the handle of the dagger sitting there, embedded into his flesh. It had become a part of him. He knew if he pulled it out he would die, painfully. He remembered. He looked at the hand on the mirror, cracked and calloused with dirt, and pulled. He pulled the the ancient steel out of his chest, screaming in pain, and collapsed in a pool of blood, he felt his torn up clothes soaking up the black sludge. He looked at the dagger in his hand, covered in blood, black blood. The reflection of his face on the blade, the red draining for his eyes as the life drained from his body. He opened his mouth, and spoke his very first words in 4 years, his voice hoarse from disuse and dust, which would also be his very last. He died laughing " Ring-a, ring-a, rosy, pocket full of posy. Ashes, ashes! We all fall..."