The Play

The woman gripped his shoulders, nails digging into his flesh through the thin fabric. He avoided the woman's piercing gaze, the unnatural joy holding the corners of her lips upwards. He chose to ignore her twitching eye, the tears humbling her face. 

This woman was his mother, or so he believed.

The woman shook him, voice laced with fear, "Never question, obey."

The boy lived in a rather strange place - a nameless world. A world in which life seemed scripted, much like a play in theatre. Now, the curtains were closed, the next scene yet to play.

The boy smiled, pushing aside the pain radiating through his shoulders, "I won't do it again." - A white lie he has told countless times.

The woman let go of him, her smile widening as she reached out to pat his head, "Good, never forget."

In the corner of his eye, the boy noticed a jar of cookies morphing into a can of peas. He looked up and sighed - the day, in a matter of seconds, turned into a night. The curtains opened, and he had no desire to partake.

The boy touched his shoulder. There was no pain, no traces of the nails digging into his shoulders. His mother hummed while opening the can of peas, pan on a stove hissing mildly. The boy tiptoed to the front door, turning the handle carefully - this might be his only chance.

His own hurried steps loudly echoed in his ears as he ran out of the house. The boy knew he shouldn't question any part of this world. He should extinguish any lingering doubts about his life before they turn to wildfire.

The behavior They craved was undoubtful, frank. Yet, the boy's mind couldn't help but rebel.

A moss carried his steps silently as he entered the forest. The darkness hid his figure, allowing him to slip deeper into the death of night. His peace steadied the further he was from his prison-like house. The leaves rustled in a gentle breeze. He could finally breathe freely. His nostrils flared as they caught a foul smell. His hands reached up, rubbing his emerald eyes as to accustom to the darkness.

When the hands left his face, he found himself in the dining room.

"Dear, pass me the mashed potatoes," the boy's father murmured, spoon in hand, the same dreadful smile plastered on his face - the same smile his mother owned since birth.

The boy's hand quivered, fork falling from his grasp.

"Tristan, is there something wrong?" Tristan's mother clasped her face, "Isn't the dinner good?"

Tristan's lips parted, but the words he spilled weren't his, "Your cooking is always amazing, mom." A flash of fear crossed his features before returning to its impassiveness. This scene called for his presence, yet the boy wished to dissolve into darkness. As his body moved against his will, the boy slowly withered. He wanted to escape, to explore, to find anything else for his mind to stay sane.

The curtains closed, and the day returned.

The boy glanced back at his mother, his father nowhere in sight. He grabbed his backpack, gaze lingering on the back of his mother. Was the boy's father ever real? - The only thing the boy knew was that his father only appeared when the play started.

He silently wished his mother farewell before escaping the house once again.

The day brought more light, a promise of better days ahead. The boy quickly followed the same path. However, before he could reach the forest, the trees shrank before his eyes. The moss bubbled and soon turned into a land of grass. The forest was now a meadow, thriving with blooming flowers. The boy's mouth gaped open - this was not a small change, a change he could blame on his imagination.

He gulped down his hesitation before stepping onto the meadow. It was breathtakingly beautiful. The boy let the grass course his ankles, the flowers brush against his skin. He plopped onto the grass, enjoying its long strands surrounding his body.

He chose to continue, to walk until his legs ache - until the curtain raises again.

As he strolled through this unexpected world of the unknown, he came to a haunting conclusion. Every place he came across seemed closer to the last. It was as if someone wanted to fit every wonder of the world on a tiny piece of paper. 

The writer sat in a dimly lit basement, revising his work over and over again. He was fed up with rewriting scenes and improving dialogues. Nothing seemed good enough. He wasn't capable of any creation whatsoever. The writer leaned back in his chair. No matter how many worlds he created, and how many good endings formed into words under his fingertips, he was unable to find satisfaction. 

Yet he held a belief that none of his creations could disturb him - that not a piece of his work could give him sleepless nights.

The writer scratched his head before erasing one of his creations - Tristan. 

'He isn't important to the story.' - crossed the writer's mind before pressing enter, sealing Tristan's death.

The boy stopped before a forest covered by thick fog. He hugged his torso tightly. Crows cawed, swirling above his head in circles. A cold air hugged his legs, hanging low by the ground, eating away at his warmth. A lone question formed in the boy's head. - Should I continue? His foot set into the forest cautiously. Taking one step at a time, the boy soon lost his way in the thick layer of fog. His eyes became useless - thus, he resorted to closing them. With only a few senses remaining, the boy walked straight ahead. 

Perhaps this world was never meant to be explored. Perhaps he was foolish to defy the rules. Perhaps these rules were the only force keeping this world from crumbling.

The boy bumped his head against a hard surface. He opened his emerald-green eyes to see - nothing. The boy passed the fog and the forest and now stood, vision clear, before a blank space. The boy tilted his head curiously, extending his hand into the unknown. With little to no thought, the boy stepped into the blank space. He came to the end of this world, to the very edge of imagination. He stepped into the part the writer had yet to create.

The writer turned off the light and closed his laptop. He liked Tristan - this name held a dear place in his heart. The writer chuckled. 

The boy's name held a deep meaning - sadness, melancholy - the sole source of the writer's motivation to create.