[h2]Marcus Bellamy[/h2]
[hr]
[i]Michelle.[/i]

It was a name that hadn’t crossed the mayor’s mind in many years, not since well after leaving school and apprenticing with his father for many years. He and Michelle had grown up together, and were as close as any could be at the time, almost inseparable one could have said considering they were seen laughing and playing just about every waking day of their youth. The family contention however began to put strains on their relationship, as both sides seemed to show some kind of animosity toward the other’s child, as though neither were good enough to be together, even as friends. As time passed, and adolescence kicked things into high gear for them both, they still promised to never grow apart, and slowly their relationship began to turn that much more intimate. But, it seemed the more they chose to be together forever, the more reality came in as a wild fire to consume and destroy.

Both were happy as one, but their families had other uses for them as mid-adolescence gave way to professions opening up, and long roads of study which kept them simply too busy to ever truly be together again. As children, they mused over the idea of running away to part of the world, to a place no one would ever find them, just to start over. But the end result was that time and distance began the slow descent of once happy memories, until thoughts of a better life together were nothing but a wisp of smoke to be carried away by the western winds.

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“Mister Bellamy?”

The voice seemed so distant, as though it were miles away even, until his name was repeated again and pulled the man from his reverie, causing him to glance over at the doorway, and the little boy standing within its old wooden frame. The kid couldn’t have been any more than eleven or twelve years old, a pup really, dressed in an earth-toned shirt and pants, ragged boots, and a round face covered in soot and dirt. There he was holding one of the largest hunting rifles seen in a long time. Probably modified from various assorted pieces and complete with a long, thin leaf-shaped bayonet blade firmly secured to the front. Marcus narrowed his eyes as he stared at the boy for a moment, unsure of what he was seeing, and the kid spoke again.

“There’s been accident, sir.” The kid’s voice was dry, emotionless even, as he then pulled up the light brown shirt he was wearing to reveal a single bullet wound along the side of his torso, healed over and left only with a scar. A scar that seemed even more familiar than the man had expected.

“What happened, kid?” Marcus responded, his voice sounding echoed and hollow, as though trying to speak in a vacuum. He tried to rise up from the leather chair, but was unable; an unknown force holding him down with no give. 

The boy lowered his shirt, concealing his scarred torso. “I killed him, sir.” The boy’s eyes welled up with tears as he continued. “In the woods, he came to get me, and-” He paused for a moment to wipe his watery eyes. “The roaches got to him, shot him in the head. If I hadn’t been out on my own, none of this would have happened!” The boy broke down, unable to string the remaining words together, but instead, pulled a tarnished bowie knife from his belt sheath, and held it to his throat. 

“Wait!” Marcus tried to push up from the chair, but every effort only caused the invisible chains that shackled him to tighten further. “What are you d-...”

It was too late as the kid’s arm swiftly slid across his own throat, the blade slicing through cleanly, followed by the cascade of blood as the life quickly left the kid, his body crumpling to the dusty floor. 

[i]“Oh god NO!”[/i]

 Marcus cried out, his own voice echoing into the darkness as his body jerked forward from it’s reclined position in the leather chair, and the eyes of the mayor opened up to an empty office. The man had fallen asleep -deeply- apparently and sweat rolled down his brow as he looked around the room, specifically at the doorway which lead out into the hall. No boy. No blood. Instinctively, however, the mayor stood to his feet, pulling his otherwise neatly tucked dress shirt out, and lifted it up to peer at the left side of his torso. There it was. The scar which would ever remind him of that failed night he’d lost his one and only uncle. 

“Shit.” The man breathed as he fixed his shirt, retucking it and adjusting the belt. “Where the hell did [i]that[/i] come from?...”