Just One More Bite

Oh god. Please tell me this is a dream. I purposefully kick at my own foot, and I feel something. Pain. You don't feel pain in dreams. I took a better look at where I was.

I was in the middle of London, on a bridge looking up to Big Ben. Then there was the boy from the screen.

The boy kept speaking, "Come on!" and laughing with joy. And, as I came to realize, someone was answering him. I turned around to see a tall sleek man, with dark and chiseled features laughing and answering the child with a simple, "Wait, son." The boy skipped up the bridge, with his little backpack, giggling uncontrollably. He was cute.

The man and his son met up with what seemed to be the child's mother, in a shack near the bridge. There were small farms close to the shack, which the boy started running around in with some other boy. Then something weird happened. The little boy hauled a suitcase into his bag, one that had come from the farms inbox, or salary.

He opened it slightly, glancing at the thousands of dollars inside. That little fuck stole someone's month in payment.

Then the whole scene had evaporated and now showed a kitchen table with a window that looked like Belleville, where the nine year old had seemed more like he was thirteen. The same black locks, hazel eyes with gold and green specks, and the same fragile figure. His parents sat adjacent from him, and a different boy sat very neatly to the side, out of view. I stood around the door and watched their conversation take place.

"What's wrong with your school, Ryan?" his mother questioned, very concerned.

"Everything, and every living creature inside of it!" he hissed. "Fuck everything!"

"I would encourage you to use clean words," his father suggested, gently.

"You're the worst of them all, dad! You're such an asshole!"

This scene had also faded away, and Ryan was in school this time, and it seemed that he only aged one year. He was in the middle of taking pictures for picture day, and the photographer had just demonstrated the black and white photo. The photo looked strange.

There was a duplicate of himself behind him.

"What the hell is this!" he spat. "Why the fuck does every camera do this?"

The photographer looked down in shame. "I am so sorry, would you like to retake it?"

"Not with a nimrod like you!" Ryan stuck his tongue out.

The boy behind Ryan frowned slightly, and as I came to realize, followed Ryan everywhere. I couldn't see the boy's face; his back was turned to face me.

In a blink of an eye, the scene changed again. There Ryan was, crying while gripping a newspaper in his hands. I came from behind, and thought I should have soothed him.

"Ryan!" I called.

He couldn't hear me, but he did answer my question by mumbling to himself.

" I-I should b-be dead..." he mumbled, tears streaming across his face. "I...I should be gone." I approached him slowly and looked into his eyes. They were different. They had sparks of violet surrounding his pupils.

Just like Frank's.

Notes

title from an asking Alexandria song.

I hope you liked this chapter ( I hope )