[img=http://i.imgur.com/UPINOf1.png]

[B][U]???[/B][/U]

[i]“Someday, we’ll make it through… ” [/i] The first thing he heard was her perfect voice.

It was as sweet and clear as ever. Ten-year-old Lute remained in his makeshift bed and let her continue her favorite song he stared up at the bare ceiling, watching dust motes dance through the rays of sunlight that filtered through the shattered window. Man, his head hurt. He had this vaguest dream of a perpetually frowning fish (?) and a little ghost woman who resided inside his brain. “Ruana?” Lute sat up and stared at his sister’s back. She was facing the wall, curled up in a fetal position. He sighed and threw the threadbare blanket over her instead, since she was sick and getting chills wasn’t good for her.

And then Lute could hear her voice no more.

“Ma!?” He shouted and jumped up from the cot without waiting for an answer. “[b]MA![/b]” The virtuoso yelled louder as he ran out the room. They had only two rooms, so if she wasn’t the bedroom it was either she was in here or outside…! 

 “Oh, you don’t need to shout, sweetheart. Kids today, they think their mothers are deaf,” He heard her laugh and glanced towards the voice, his eyes alighting on the figure of the most important person in the world. “[i]Ma[/i],” Lute muttered limply and strode towards her, staring at his mother as she dried her hands on a rag on the counter then turned to face him. “Can you continue the song for me?” She clasped her weathered hands together and waited; when he continued to stare at her she nodded encouragingly. Lute awkwardly cleared his throat and sung the next line of the song, [i]“Rise from the ashes, the pain, the loss. Free forevermore.”[/i]

His mother listened until his voice faded away and smiled. She reached down to cup his face in her hands. He could feel the blisters on her palm, the wounds that almost healed but re-opened because she didn’t have the time to let them be, the welts and the flaking skin, brush against his cheek. “My handsome son! You will grow up to be someone far beyond our station, and when you earn enough riches to last you a lifetime, you will not forget your mother, right? Your plain old mother with her dirty clothes and messy hair. Your peasant mother, who cannot even feed her own children,” She murmured faintly. Lute growled and pulled away, stung once again by the disregard his mother had for herself. “Ma, can you [b]stop[/b] that!? It’s not your fault, okay!? None of this is! Gods, I hate it when you do that to yourself!” He cried out.

His voice was drowned out by a loud roar preceded by the rotting door being kicked from the hinges. A distorted noise, at its core a human’s voice warped by memories soured by hate, malice, and terror, filled the house from the smallest corner to the rafters. “[b]dELiLAH! wHEre’S MY fUCKinG-[/b],” He belched loudly and swayed from side to side, then slammed his half-empty bottle on the table, “[b]dINneR!?[/b]” 

Lute looked away and shrunk back, the ragged stone counter digging into his back as his father sat himself down and placed his hands on the table. Those thick, gnarly woodcutter’s fingers drumming against the grained wood told him where he was.

He was in Hell.