The boy was covered in mud. He had just been bullied by the other kids on the street.
He struggled to his feet and dusted off his tattered clothes, his expression marbled.
"Ahh, I'm fed up!" he let out through his clenched teeth.
Walking with difficulty, one of his legs so injured that drops of blood fell to the ground, staining it with their crimson color, he headed toward a distant area covered in light mist.
The trail of blood he left in his path contrasted sharply with the monotonous, dilapidated surroundings.
All around him, buildings that seemed on the verge of collapse provided shelter for the people of his neighborhood.
The sun cast its deep shadows as it began its descent below the horizon. The air was filled with the foul smell of rotting food.
"Ahh, if it isn't Little Tim."
A man called out to the boy as he limped along. The man saw his wounded leg, but made no comment.
The man was a merchant, trying to make a living in this hellish place by selling damaged apples he'd gotten from who knows where.
Tim seemed uncomfortable in his presence, but answered the man's greeting anyway.
"Good morning Mr. Alan, nice day, isn't it? ... Uh, how's your business these days?"
The man was in his forties, wrinkles forming at the corners of his brown eyes, which seemed to have lost all hope. At his question, Alan let out a long sigh.
"Well, bad. I don't make as many sales as I used to. On top of that, the quality of my apples has gone down. It's much harder to get them, I feel my end is near... well, it's not all bad."
The boy turned his gaze from the man to a small portrait behind a basket of apples, hidden from view. It showed a beautiful woman with flaxen hair and a young girl who looked to be about 8 years old. The latter's hair was a strangely similar shade of brown to the merchant's.
Tim refrained from asking any questions. The man's story was likely tragic, and he knew he wouldn't have the strength to listen to it.
"Well... I wish you luck, Mr. Alan," he finally blurted out.
"Aha..." Alan let out a small laugh and continued, "Thank you, little one, but you don't have to worry about me, you know."
A slight smile made its way onto the boy's face.
The smile disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared as he continued walking and was about to pass the small apple stall.
Tim's hand reached out and tried to... borrow for an indefinite period of time ... an apple. He was about to grab one.
It looked so beautiful, and it had been so long since he'd eaten...
However, his hand stopped at the last moment, his expression indecipherable. He seemed to be in an inner conflict.
If he didn't take the apple, he wouldn't eat again today. But if he was caught, Tim would be beaten again by the group of boys in the street.
They were laying down the law. Whenever Tim managed to... borrow something for an indefinite period of time... they would gang up on him and steal his loot.
After a moment's hesitation, Tim finally decided not to take the apple. He wasn't willing to take that risk. Not today.
He sighed and limped on.
***
A fine mist obscured Tim's view.
Night would soon fall.
The grass under his feet was slightly wet and his breath was short.
He held his leg. His face showed pain, his cheeks were flushed, and his breath produced water vapor that mixed with the fog.
He stepped onto a gravel path. His shoes, long worn to destruction, made a piercing screech in the suffocating silence of the surroundings.
In the distance, he could see his house. He seemed to tremble just looking at it.
He got close enough to make out the wooden beams and windows that had been broken for so long that he had no memory of them. The roof had been destroyed and hastily repaired so many times that the original wood was no longer visible.
He scanned the surrounding grass with a nostalgic look on his face. He seemed to miss a time long gone.
His gaze shifted and his face took on a hint of pain.
There it was, a grave in disrepair.
The boy's fists clenched abruptly and his clumsily cut fingernails penetrated his fragile skin hardened by all the hardships he had endured.
On the weathered grave, it was written:
[Maria Elvins]
[2110-2136]
A small tear escaped Tim's eyes, but he turned away and continued to walk stoically, despite his tremor.
A small sob escaped his tight mouth:
"Mom... I'm sorry... your grave is already destroyed."
The young boy arrived at the doorstep of his house. He pulled himself together and dried his tears, but he couldn't hide the slight trembling of his limbs.
Above the door was handwritten on a shabby plank of wood:
[Elvins's House].
Tim gathered his courage and stepped forward. He touched the rusty handle... and turned it.
He was about to enter hell.
His hell.