Rasha looked up from the darkness. The darkness that had become a part of him now. He lived it, could feel it within him, growing stronger with each passing day. The night never seemed to end. The light, he could see it at times, before being swallowed up by the hunger that had no name. He felt only pain now. He felt it with a passion he could not understand, almost couldn't bear. If this is all he had to live for, what was he still doing alive…

After all he had been through; this was all that he had left. A heart that still beat, but with no purpose. He would lay there at night as he stared into the shadows, floating in his pain, drowning in it. Not really understanding why and not feeling like it was important. Only the fact that it was there was important. As well as the fact that it was always there, squeezing at his heart and soul.

He ran down the dark hallway, chest heaving, face slicked with sweat, trying to figure a way out. The gloom stretched out before him like a suffocating blanket with no end. His heart raced faster as he heard the thing getting closer. Go left. He burst through the heavy door, not bothering to close it. Whatever was after him was closer now. And it didn't need to bother with doors.

The floor gave way beneath him, plunging him feet first into the unknown. Faster and faster he fell, the wind whistling at his sides, singing the song of his death…

Rasha was what most so called normal people would call a freak. The gothic freak with a pentagram and black nail-polish. His shoulder length black hair was always in his face and his skin was never a shade darker than ivory. One eye was a violet purple while the other was a deep blue taken from the depths of the ocean. The most important thing about him though wasn't his looks, but his aura. Darkness followed him in a cloud, and he openly embraced it. The weight of it sagged down his shoulders, as well as the fragile looking skin under his eyes. He felt like he deserved the pain, had done something to deserve it. He had to believe that, for it was the only thing that kept him sane.

He lived in the rundown house that resides in every community. His father was never home and he often heard his mother's moans coming from the basement when she brought home her male "friends". He had no friends of his own, imaginary or otherwise. He had given up on imagination long ago. He lived in the attic, which he had painted black. Band posters papered the walls, which formed a shell that contained the mountains of books that threatened to topple over at the slightest movement. His bed was little more then a mattress propped up on several box springs, but he loved it all the same. Bags of marshmallows were stashed by the bed, which he would regularly put in his top ramen.

As Rasha awoke from his nightmare, he could still hear the song playing, telling the story of his death. He shivered, partly because of his sweat and partly because he was freaked out. Ever since he was little, he could see things, hear things, that weren't supposed to be there. He knew his dream was telling him something, and he was scared because he didn't know what. Rasha almost didn't want to know. He could feel the night speaking to him then, calling his name. Rasha quickly pulled the covers over his head. Over and over he murmured for it to go away until finally it did. Reluctantly he rolled over and drifted off into a restless sleep.

I know it kinda sounds boring so far, sorry! This is based on the story of one of the characters I have living in my head, so…yeah.