The start or the finished "The Boy", I have yet to decide...

The Boy awakes from his slumber, his tired eyes parched in the morning warmth. His throat is tight as he yawns and the dust swarm sleeps, soon to be awakened by the pull of a curtain. Sun rays ignite the particles as the boy lashes at the fabric. The piercing light breathes new life and the dust clouds roll and turn like the ocean in a hurricane. He places his near moist feet on the faded carpet, regretting his half-conscious decision instantly, as he always does. His soles graced with a dead skin sock which he will wear until the shower relieves him of the burden. His garments are the corpses of a post-offensive battle scene. Which to choose; Sergeant blue-tee or First Private white-tee who has served him in battle many a time. The trusty private will do, The Boy slings on his armour and starts a drunkard like shuffle to the stairs. The Boy never feels safe walking down those stairs because no matter how bright the day, he can never see whats at the bottom. A chorus of creeks rings through the hall as each step is taken, this old wood choir is an all to familiar sound to the Boy. What if the carpet was quick sand? what if when his foot touched ground floor he was swallowed up? How would life be looking up from underneath? These questions are all to familiar to the Boy. His callus riddled hand scrapes on the painted white as it spins on the last section of banister, the u-turn he always takes at the start of each day.



The writing is unrefined and probably sloppy in many places but i wasn't to bothered about that when i was writing.... have pity