They Called Me Frank

Bitter wind rustled through the bare tree branches, their creaking interupting the dead silence of the dull, freezing, winter day. Snow and dead leaves lined the gutters of the streets, delapidated buildings towered over the roads.

In the midst of one of these dreary, near-abandoned streets a young boy made his way home, his thin shoes making no noise on the cobblestones. The wind had blown his dark hair into his face, hiding the vibrant green eyes that provided the only colour in the scene.
His small body ached with cold, so much so that you could see how he shook from meters away. His clothes were thin, and not at all suited to keep away the cruel fingers of winter chill. His breath came in even little clouds that formed in front of his face as he walked.
So small, so young was this boy, that you had to wonder why he was out by himself. Where were his parents? How could they be so cruel as to send him outside in clothing like that?

The boy rubbed his hands together and blew on them before jamming them into his pockets, a desperate act, to restore some warmth into his blue fingers. Almost home. The only comfort in the thought was the knowledge that home would be warm. If it were not for the warmth he might never go home at all. The child quickened his pace, his house in view now.
But as he approached a deep unsettling feeling rose in the pit of his stomach.

It was wrong.

Something here was wrong.
The door was open as wide as it could go and dirty snow had gathered on the step, spilling through the doorway. The boy's breaths quickened audibly as he approached, the little clouds now ragged bursts of fog.
Carefully, he stepped over the mess and into the house. It was cold inside, as if it had been left open and without heat for days. Broken glass sparkled up the hallway, but the boy barely noticed as he walked through it. His bright, cautious eyes were fixed on something else.

A pool of crimson.

One of mothers shoes.

He didn't need to look into the room to know that whatever was waiting for him wouldn't be pleasant, but still he peeked around the corner. Blank-faced he took in the scene.

A heavy sight for one so young, so much meaning, so very little understood.

He would never have to come home again.
He would never have a home again.

Something else caught his attention.

A rustle of movement upstairs. The sound of something being dropped, but not broken. A rough laugh.
Danny ran.