TM Prompt 193 - Forest and Creek
Remus had always liked the woods near his house, especially in the spring. The trees were tall and elegant, with vibrant leaves that formed a canopy far above, glazing the soil with emerald light.
The grass came up to his knees, and he knew if he crouched down he could be hidden in the sea of green and yellow, and spring on the monsters lurking in his imagination.
His favourite part, though, was the stream. Clear and pure, holding all the colours around them as it bubbled over rocks covered in moss. Sometimes he would just sit and watch the movement of the water.
There was one thing, though, that always bothered him. He'd never seen the woods at night, and the curiosity kept building and building until he finally asked, one month, if he could see them in the dark, when his brook knew the stars.
His father's face had paled, lips thin and eyes wide as he shook his head, told him no. When Remus asked why, he merely repeated the word, louder. His mother merely shook her head, with a sad frown that he didn't understand.
The boy appeared to have given up - until he managed, after careful planning, to sneak out in the evening, clad in pastel pyjamas and a bright grin as he ran towards a world of harmony and fantasy.
He slowed as he approached, as the majesty of sunset faded away, looking round with the simple wonder of a child. He didn't see the darkness as foreboding - no, it added mystery, held precious secrets only he was brave enough to find. Remus felt very proud as he strode toward the water.
As he crouched beside the stream, he saw the moon appear in its depths, pale and vague, as if it belonged to another word. He knew nothing but awe as he reached forward to touch it with tiny hands.
Until he heard the sickening sound of sliding bones and shifting organs.
Until he turned and saw a horrific man become a horrific deformity become a horrific beast and he ran, ran, ran, but the grass couldn't hide him, and he fell into his stream; his blood would colour the water now.
He was coughing and screaming and sobbing, and he could barely hear his mother shout, over and over, stupefy, stupefy, but it made the beast fall away, and then strong arms scooped him up, cradled him to a broad chest, carried him home.
He was safe, but he wasn't saved.
He was five years old. He never returned.
The grass came up to his knees, and he knew if he crouched down he could be hidden in the sea of green and yellow, and spring on the monsters lurking in his imagination.
His favourite part, though, was the stream. Clear and pure, holding all the colours around them as it bubbled over rocks covered in moss. Sometimes he would just sit and watch the movement of the water.
There was one thing, though, that always bothered him. He'd never seen the woods at night, and the curiosity kept building and building until he finally asked, one month, if he could see them in the dark, when his brook knew the stars.
His father's face had paled, lips thin and eyes wide as he shook his head, told him no. When Remus asked why, he merely repeated the word, louder. His mother merely shook her head, with a sad frown that he didn't understand.
The boy appeared to have given up - until he managed, after careful planning, to sneak out in the evening, clad in pastel pyjamas and a bright grin as he ran towards a world of harmony and fantasy.
He slowed as he approached, as the majesty of sunset faded away, looking round with the simple wonder of a child. He didn't see the darkness as foreboding - no, it added mystery, held precious secrets only he was brave enough to find. Remus felt very proud as he strode toward the water.
As he crouched beside the stream, he saw the moon appear in its depths, pale and vague, as if it belonged to another word. He knew nothing but awe as he reached forward to touch it with tiny hands.
Until he heard the sickening sound of sliding bones and shifting organs.
Until he turned and saw a horrific man become a horrific deformity become a horrific beast and he ran, ran, ran, but the grass couldn't hide him, and he fell into his stream; his blood would colour the water now.
He was coughing and screaming and sobbing, and he could barely hear his mother shout, over and over, stupefy, stupefy, but it made the beast fall away, and then strong arms scooped him up, cradled him to a broad chest, carried him home.
He was safe, but he wasn't saved.
He was five years old. He never returned.