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01:11 am, twentyfoursevencritic
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… A story… Kind of.

January. The month of recovery from Christmas festivities. The month of flagships and their big sails. The month of New Beginnings, and of Old Endings; ushered out of sight and mind by positive whisperings on the New Year wind.

The cold that came with Christmas stays a while, settling and outstaying it’s welcome like a distant relative. Naked trees shiver under the hard wind’s cold caress and the evenings still arrive at tea-time, bringing with them a flurry of hat-and-gloved children under instructions to be home before dark.

Nobody likes January.

Who is he? And where did he go?
He was a figure of strength and new-found confidence. He smiled. And he locked the demons away in an airtight chest, and sat on it laughing with his friends about who fancied who.

And now? Now there is nothing. A wreck of a something; a shell of a someone. No spark in his eyes; no passion in his soul; no laughter on his lips. There are no tears in his eyes - they’ve all been cried - and no demons in his chest. They broke free. They flew from their confines and made good their threat to ruin everything.

On a night shrouded in mist and hardened by an incoming frost, a light from an upstairs window shines brighter than usual. It’s approaching the Witching Hour, and whilst those at opposite ends of the Young/Old spectrum have been in bed for hours, a boy sits lonely on his bed, underwear by his feet and head in his knees.

It happened again.

A shout through the wall and his muffled sobs stop. The darkness swallows the boy in his bedroom as the lights go out.

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