"It's the witch boy!"
"Who's that?" asked a small boy.
"He's the one who is always by himself. His mom was a witch from the East."
"Him?" The small boy pointed at the witch boy. "Is he evil?"
"Well, yeah, stupid. His mom was evil, so that makes him evil too." The taller kid crouched down, grabbing a rock.
The witch boy watched them; his eyes glowered, then flickered red, and the two boys took a step back. His trembling hands balled up tightly into little fists.
"S-see! He's a witch too." The taller boy held out the rock to the smaller one, "Throw this. It'll keep him from eating us."
"E-eating?" Gears turned in the smaller boy's head, and he turned to face the taller boy. "But- But mother says not to throw stuff at people."
"Don't be dumb! You saw it too, his eyes are red. That makes him a creature."
Hurt flickered across the witch boy's face, and he slowly started to move away from the other boys. This kind of conversation usually only led to one thing.
"Oh! Dad says creatures aren't human."
"So it's okay to throw things at him."
Right as the taller boy hurled a rock, the witch boy turned to run, but before he could get far, it struck him on the side of his head. A warm, gooey liquid trickled down from under his unkempt black hair into his eye, blurring his vision. Witch boy stumbled about before falling, catching himself with his hands.
He pressed on the wound, and a fiery heat burned in his stomach, bolting through his body like electricity, and circling his wound. The witch boy wiped at the blood, which stopped flowing, and his wound pulsed as the energy that healed him died down.
"See!" the taller boy yelled. "His wound is healing too fast, and his eyes turned red again. We need to get him before he eats us."
Witch boy looked around as the adults passing by sneered at him in disgust, and parents herded their children to the other side of the street, collectively ignoring his anguish.
Why did they always ignore his pain like he was worthless?
The kids tossed more rocks, and the witch boy scrambled to his feet, fleeing down a narrow alleyway. Rats scurried past him as he avoided obstacles cluttering the way, all while being barraged by rocks, yet he pressed forward, finding his way back to a road.
He could feel the heat from the smithy defrost his nose when another rock struck his head, causing him to stumble forward. The cobbled road inches away.
Tears pricked at his eyes, and he clawed at the dirt, moving forward any way he could when the smithy came into view. The boys cackled as they caught up, and the taller one stepped on the witch boy's hand, cheering triumphantly.
"We got you now! Once you're gone, the village will be safe."
"Is this really okay?" The smaller boy asked, glancing at the witch boy's face, covered with snot, tears, and soot.
"Don't worry, we are only chasing him out."
Witch boy yelped as the taller boy twisted his foot, eliciting a loud crack from the little hand beneath it.
"Sm-Smith!" Witch boy cried out.
The two boys flinched, then the taller one swiveled his head around, only to come face to face with an apron covered in ash. He looked up slowly while whimpering in fear. Smith's face was like a storm, not just because of the blackened ash and dark beard that covered it, but because of the rage that flashed in his eyes and the frown lines that sparked like lightning across his face.
"What do you think you are doing?" The lunking man asked the tall boy.
"We…" The boy looked for his friend, who had long since run off. Shuffling backwards, he too bolted as soon as he was sure Smith wouldn't chase after him.
"You okay, boy?"
Witch boy nodded his head up and down. He clutched his hand against his chest as it throbbed, and more lightning ran through his body.
Smith knelt. He cupped the boy's face between his hands and carefully smoothed back, natted black hair, revealing a purpling bruise. He sighed as he reached for the boy's hand, which inflated like a balloon. The man's course and calloused fingers rubbed lightly over it, then pressed on the skin, causing the witch boy to wince and quickly pull away.
"How about you eat here today, and I'll fix your hand up?"
"N-No!" A lump formed in the boy's throat as he looked into the man's eyes. The storm was gone, and only pity remained. "They will be mean to you again." The boy's words choked out.
"It's okay, boy. I can take care of myself."
"No…" The boy said, more determined. He couldn't bring misfortune on the man, not again.
His hand throbbed, and he brought it to his chest before rushing into the alley behind the smithy. A large metal bin clanged as a man tossed a bag of trash into it. He looked at the boy and scoffed, then closed the bin and headed back inside.
The boy searched through a wooden crate lying on the ground, only to find pieces of scrap metal and empty food wrappers with tiny bite marks all around the edges. Keeping his injured hand to his chest, he pulled the crate over to the metal bin and stood atop it.
Tip-toeing, he strained as he attempted to push the lid with one hand, but to no avail. He slumped, his head leaning against the dirty bin. His face tightened, and the crate below him blurred. He choked back tears before gently lowering himself down. There was only one place that could make him feel better.
Skulking from alley to alley, the boy watched as families returned home one by one. When he caught sight of a little girl who sat atop her father's shoulders, and the boy followed them at a distance, watching as the kid expressively talked about her day until they came to their house, where they disappeared through the door and up a flight of stairs.
Turning, he looked at his reflection in a store window. His small hand raised to his dark brown eyes, and heat rose from his stomach as his forehead pulsed in pain, and his eyes flashed bright red. Does no one else's eyes do this like his? Was he really not human?
The shop door swung open, and the owner yelled, "Get out of here, boy! You're scaring my customers away."
So he scurried down the street as daylight fell, making his way through alley after alley. Trash bins lined the walls, and he pulled a crate over to one. Standing on it, he rose to his tiptoes and pushed with all his might at the lid with little success. His stomach moaned, and his head throbbed as he slowly climbed down from the crate.
Stumbling down the alley, he made his way to a small hole in the wall, and he could smell the earthy field of flowers as he pressed his face to it. A lone shack stood on a hill surrounded by vibrant colors. Its wood was cracked and worn from years of neglect, and its walls warped from weather.
The boy wiped his eyes as the small building reminded him of the years he had spent living there with his mother. What he remembered of her was almost a blur, as if their time together was nothing but a dream. Yet her smile remained vivid within his mind, bringing him warmth despite the chill that swept through the alley.
The cold rocks beneath his fingers caused him to reluctantly pull away from the wall. The last hue of golden sunlight seeped through the hole, hitting him in the face as he settled next to a pile of trash. He pulled paper from the bins, stuffing them into his clothes before lying on the ground. Families walked past his makeshift home, walking hand in hand as he slowly drifted off to sleep.