It was a wondrous night, the kind of night that would make even the most coldest of people; those who would keep their hearts caged and wear a mask of nonchalance on their face, not dare entertain the thoughts that haunt their heads; take a step back and let the night sink in, bathe in all it's beauty and wonder and be awed by it, have their eyes sparkle and, if only for a short while, free them from their past and enjoy the present moment. It was the kind of night that would make you question how such ill-willed people, the kind who would steal and kill and do whatever they please, can exist under this wondrous sky. Though perhaps, only for that one night, they didn't exist in this world, for even they were captivated by its beauty. Perhaps, only for that night, Cyrilo had found himself in another world, for he couldn't possibly comprehend how a night such as this could exist in the world he knew.

The moon casted her silver gaze on the world below, on the tranquil green landscapes that stretched over yonder, on the flowers and the blades of grass that tossed their heads from side to side, dancing to a tune that perhaps only they could hear. The skies above, or perhaps he should call it heavens, for it clearly was too beautiful to be called just "sky", was a canvas of dark blue, and filling the canvas was of course the moon, in the very centre of the piece, shining bright and blue, it all its glory, and surrounding it were tiny dots of white and red, covering the entire canvas, and right above the blue moon, these dots formed a trail stretching from one edge of the canvas to another (Cyrilo only imagined there to be an edge, for there wasn't one that he could see. Perhaps, far away, the sky really did have an edge, and if they did, that would be what he was referring to now), creating a masterpiece that no human could ever hope to rival. Nature truly was the best creator, and this sky was one of its greatest masterpieces.

That night, Cyrilo left his old home, a shabby house of wood, where he lived with his parents and his younger sister. His father was an abusive man, a capricious, ill-tempered individual who was drunk half the time, and when he wasn't he would either be beating his mother and his sister, or he was sound asleep in his room, snoring all night, so loud that if they had neighbours, he was certain that they would be standing on their doorsteps, with knives and pitchforks in their hands. His sister, Adele, would argue that he was a frightening individual, and perhaps there was some truth to that; to her at least, it would seem that way; but even the nine-year-old Cyrilo could see clearly that he was just a pathetic excuse of a man. His mother was a kind individual, too kind perhaps, and wouldn't resist or even scream no matter what that man did. Cyrilo understood her intentions, it wasn't out of fear for her, but rather because if she did resist, he might harm her children instead, yet she wouldn't kill him either, even when she had the opportunity to, and when Cyrilo tried to do the same, she would tell him, in a tone that was strict and firm, a tone of hers that he was quite unfamiliar with, that he did not have the right to take away another person's life. No one did. And if he did kill him anyways, he would be no different from him. Her tone caught him off-guard, and he didn't argue further; from her face, he understood that she had no intention of continuing this conversation, or that he could convince her otherwise. He hadn't seen that look before, nor did he wish to see it again. It was the most unwelcoming sight, not a look that a submissive, gentle person like her should have.

So he left it all behind. He didn't know where he was headed—they lived in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by vast grasslands and only a few houses. Pearl was a remote town, and the closest city was a good few kilometres away. He knew a bar a little further down, it was there he bought drinks for that man and brought them home, only for him to smash those bottles in their faces whenever he would be frustrated. Perhaps he'll head there? He doubted that it would be open at this hour, and there was a chance that someone might catch him and bring him back, but that wouldn't be any less harsh if he were to return now, so he might as well risk it all. Moreover, the bartender, at the very least, was a nice guy. He was kind and gentle, and would treat someone even as young as him with as much respect as any other customer. At times, he would even give him a discount. When he would be kicked from his house, and forced to find himself shelter in the cold landscapes, he would happily give him a room at a generously discounted price, and when he would find himself starved, the bartender would give him some leftovers and some water. He was a kind man, and Cyrilo hoped that he would have some more kindness spared to help him in his selfish quest. Perhaps it was too much to ask for, but he couldn't think of anyone else to turn to. Definitely not one of the other village folks; they were sure to grab him by his elbow and drag him back to his father.

It was only a twenty minute walk, and Cyrilo stood in front of a small old bar at the edge of Pearl. The door was closed, which was expected, and above was a piece of wood, engraved on which in capital letters was the word "Feiry". It was only natural that they weren't open at three in the morning, but he didn't give up hope. He knew a back entrance, one he would often use when he didn't have the time to wait in queues, and luckily it wasn't locked. He pushed the door open and went inside. It was dark, and he could barely see anything, but Cyrilo knew this shabby old place better than the back of his hand, and he easily navigated in the pitch black darkness, walking with confidence till he felt a wooden door against his palm. He followed the cracks on the wood, until he felt a metal knob. He twisted it, and opened the door with the gentlest push he could, to only immediately regret it thanks to the loud creaking sound that could wake up even the dead from their sleep of peace.

'Who's there?' asked a voice. It was a voice Cyrilo was well acquainted with, and because he was so well acquainted with it, he wondered if he misheard it. This couldn't be, he thought. "Honey," he heard another voice. He had only heard her a few times before, but he was sure that was the voice of the bartender's daughter. Wasn't she studying elsewhere, somewhere beyond the woods? She wasn't supposed to be here. Where was the bartender? No, now was not the time. He had to hurry. A match lit up, and he could see a hand holding it. That was all he needed to confirm it. He didn't wait any longer and ran out as fast as he could. He was probably doing to her the same thing he did with his mother, or any other woman he would bring over to their place. He didn't exactly know what it was, but Cyrilo could identify the action by the moans and screams of the woman, and for some reason, whenever he did it with mother, she would always scream, as if she was in pain, and that she wanted it to end, and he would keep thrusting harder and harder. He wouldn't shy away from doing it in front of him, or his sister either, and he would do it whenever he was with a woman. She wasn't moaning yet, so he might have misunderstood, but whenever he was with a woman he did the same, so it might be that they were just about to begin. No, nothing good will come out of thinking about it. He didn't see me. I'm sure. He shouldn't be able to, not in that darkness. There was the possibility that he had a glimpse of his face when he lit the match, but that possibility was too slim. For now, he just needed to keep running. Run until he reaches home, and then pretend like tonight never happened. He was sure his father wouldn't follow him, but in the off-chance he did, he needed to come up with a reason for the sweat and lack of breath.

I can only hope he doesn't follow. It wasn't long before he reached back home. He quickly closed the door and opened his shoes, arranging them as if they weren't moved at all, only to realise that there was sweat in them. Damn it. Right now, he could only make sure the punishment wasn't too severe. He quickly kept the shoes inside the small wooden box they used as a cupboard, and took out a new, untouched pair that he had stolen a while back, and kept them there instead. He then proceeded to his room and wiped away his sweat with the t-shirt he wore, before pouring some water on the ground and wiping the floor with the same cloth. That should do it, Cyrilo thought, before getting in his bed, which was a haystack, and pretending to sleep. He did eventually doze off, only to be broken out of his reverie by a high-pitched scream unlike any he had heard so far. Adele! He rushed out of his room, only to be greeted by a sight that sent down chills through his spine. The night had ended, and that fact was clear as day. The clock struck five, but he didn't need to know that to know that it no longer was the same night. After all, a sight such as this could not exist under that night sky. His mother lied on the ground, muttering something, but her voice was too low for anyone to hear. She had bruises and cuts all over, and blood dripped from her forehead down on the floor of wood, dying it a shade of red. Her almond hair covered her face, but he could still see her tears rolling down from the gaps in the strands. Her clothes were torn apart, and her back was covered in bruises and burn marks. It was clear that she wouldn't wake up. At least, he wished that she wouldn't. Right then, a bottle of glass came flying towards him. No, towards Adele, who seemed to be frozen in place with a look of shock on her face. He quickly pushed her away, and the bottle hit the wall behind, breaking immediately. 'Father!' he shouted. This was too much, even for a man as vile as him. He had gone too far. He immediately picked up one of the shards and charged towards him, only to quickly be restrained and brought to his knees. 'You son of a—you dare try to kill your own father, you good-for-nothing?' The man twisted his hand, breaking it. Cyrilo screamed. 'Shut up!' shouted the man, twisting his hand further. Tears formed in his eyes. Tears of pain and anger. His face was probably filled with fury. He should have killed him when he had the chance. It was a mistake to listen to his mother. She was too soft. Too kind. 'I-I—ha-te—y-ou-aaaaa!' The man eventually stopped. 'Useless pieces of shit. All of them, I tell ya. All of them.' He left the house with a bottle in his hand, drinking as he wobbled around, and Cyrilo could see his face all red and drunk. Damn it. Damn it! Damn it!!! He punched the ground with his left hand as hard as he could, until his fist bled, yet he kept punching still, over and over again. His gaze landed on a shard of glass beside him.

In there, he could see his reflection—his messy white hair, his sapphire eyes, his pale skin—his face was a spitting image of his father's, and he despised that, all the more so today. He took that shard and stabbed his right eye, screaming as he took the shard out and stabbed it again. 'Brother, stop!' his sister screamed, pulling his hand away, but he jerked his hand away, 'Leave me!', in turn hurting her in her chin. He immediately realised that, moving away from her. No, he thought, wide-eyed. No. No. No. No. No! I won't hurt her. No! I'm not him! I'll never be like him! He rushed out of the place, running as far as he could. He kept running, running till the sun rose from over yonder, casting its orange gaze on the world below, running till the grassland changed into forest, running till he kept breathing, running till he was tired, running till his legs finally gave up, yet he kept running still, until he eventually tripped and fell in the middle of the woods, surrounded by trees and bushes, where he thought was far away from where anyone would search for him. At the very least, he was far away from Pearl. The sun kept rising, covering the sky in its orange rays, as he laid on the ground, tired and helpless, tears falling down his face. 'Damn it,' he muttered. If only, he thought, clenching his fists. Damn it. He closed his eyes. He was tired. He didn't know where he would go next. For now, I want to rest. He could hear the clinking and clanking of metal, coming towards him, taking heavy steps. He should run. Should he? Were they coming towards him? Whatever, he didn't care anymore. For now, he simply wanted to rest. He simply laid there, with his eyes closed, falling into his slumber.