Mitchell returned home with two brand new rings, one his ring fingers. It was odd for Mitchell to see himself wearing jewelry. As he walked home he noticed Tommy and his gang of bruisers waiting for something on the other corner of the street. He pulled himself into the shadows, wondering if it was he they were looking for. Luckily he knew another way to get to his house.

He made it home safely and walked into his apartment home with his parents grunting at the sight of him home safe and sound. "What no boys beating the crap out of you today? A Pity that is..." said Mitchell father, burping at the last of his words.

"Well if your not injured maybe you clean the disposal, it's stuffed with messy leftovers," said his mother inhaling a deep breath of smoke through her cigarette.

Mitchell let out a soft sigh, and went to the kitchen to clean the sink. As he was cleaning the sink disposal for twenty minutes, his father yelled to him "Boy! Get me another beer! Now!"

"A little busy dad, can you get it yourself?" asked Mitchell politely, but heard no response. Instead he heard big steps coming toward him. Mitchell was then pulled away from the sink and was thrust to the fridge. "What did you say to me boy?" hissed his father. "You will do whatever I say you to do!"

Mitchell's father's backhand smacked Mitchell straight across the face and knocked him down, having a burning pain on his cheek.

"Now get me a beer and go straight to your room! PRONTO!" said his father and his mother snickered.

Mitchell slowly got up and felt his cheek, blood veiled his face. He probably got a cut from his father's ring he wore on his hand. He went to the fridge and grabbed a beer and shoved it to his father's torso, and went to his room, enraged. He shut the door and got out his first aid kit he bought just a few weeks ago. Mitchell was use to this abuse, so every couple of months he bought himself a new first aid kit.

He mends his cut and tossed himself onto his bed. He looked at his rings, mesmerized by the great colors they gave out. He looked at his blood red ring, and saw it glimmer in the light.

They should be punished Mitchell, they must be punished...

Mitchell looked around to see who was talking to him, but no one was in sight. He was exhausted, out of energy. He must have been hearing thing with so much energy drained out of him. He turned out the lights and fell asleep, going into the abyss of sleep.

With a cold chill going past him, Mitchell woke up shivering of cold. The fall weather must be coming close, he thought. He went to the bathroom, took a shower, and got dressed. As he walked down the hall, Mitchell paused where he was standing. Something didn't feel right in his home. First off he didn't hear the television on, and didn't smell the fresh smoke coming from his mother's cigarettes. Slowly he walked down the hall, and went into the kitchen. His mother wasn't in the kitchen. Every morning Mitchell's mother comes to the kitchen, drink her cranberry juice and smoke a couple of cigarettes. He looked around the kitchen and found his mother's pack of cigarettes near the knife stand. One of the knives was missing. He then entered the living room, the lights flickering. Mitchell didn't know what was going on, but it made him terrified. He looked down at the rug, and it was covered in dark liquid. He walked over to the couch and more of the dark liquid was there. He then saw his father lying on the ground, not moving. He called out for his father but he didn't reply, not even growl. With the overhead light flickering he could barely see his father. So he went over to the lamp beside him and turned it on, and everything was cleared to him. His father was lying on the ground, his face looking at the ceiling, eyes wide open. He had multiple stab wounds all over his body, mostly at his stomach.

He now realized what that dark liquid was: it was blood. He raced over to the phone but as he was about to grab the phone he felt something sticky on the phone he looked at his hand and it was covered in blood. He turned to the phone and flinched at the sight of his mother. She too was also dead, with her throat slit and a cigarette shoved into her mouth. He nearly tripped over the telephone wire from backing away from his shock. Behind he heard a noise behind him, the lights once again flickering on and off. He turned to see what caused the noise, and saw a hooded figure with crimson red eyes, staring straight at him.

Next thing Mitchell knew was his front door being kicked down and police officers yelling their presence. The Hooded figure jumped out of the window in a flash and disappeared into the city. Policemen came into his living room, yelling to put his hands up. He did what they were told and he was pinned to the ground. His parents are dead and now he's getting arrested. This turned to be some morning, thought Mitchell.

Mitchell was sitting in a cold, damp interrogation room. The light barely illuminated the room, only enough light to shine upon him. There was a large mirror in the room, reflecting the image of his face. He looked into the mirror, even though he knew it was a two-way mirror. He saw his flat boned jaw, his boyish features, and his light brown hair. One thing he noticed something different in his face was his eyes. There were no longer dark brown anymore. They were now a frost blue color, a blue so light it almost looked white, as if his eyes showed purity.

Before he can examine his eyes anymore, a man came in the room. From the light he could see he was very bulky, and fit. He was wearing a white dress shirt with his collar unbuttoned and sleeves curled up to his elbows. He's must have been up all night working on something, Mitchell just didn't know what. He dropped a file onto the table Mitchell was sitting near. He looked at the file and then looked at the officer blankly.

"My name is Detective McSweeny. I work for the fifth precinct police department. You must be Mitchell Wyatt. You're in a lot of trouble, kid," said the man.

Mitchell continued to stare at him, but McSweeny continued.

"Do you know why you're down here, Mitchell?"

"Because my parents were killed." Said Mitchell, without any remorse in his voice.

"Yes, do have any idea who killed them?"

Mitchell slowly shook his head. The Detective sighed, and said "Where were you at the time of 5am and 8am?"

"Sleeping" was all Mitchell said.

"Do you have anyone to verify that for you?" asked the Detective.

Mitchell shook his head. The Detective once again sighed, this time mixed with a groan. He tossed a picture to Mitchell, and the picture showed a bloody knife on the carpet, which also was drenched in blood. Mitchell looked at it closely and saw a white fingerprint on the handle of the knife.

"The fingerprint on that knife matches the fingerprint on your very own hand. Can you explain how it got there?" asked the Detective.

"I have no idea, sir. I woke up this morning and found them on the floor already dead. Before you guys came in I saw someone in a hooded sweatshirt jumping out of my window. That's the guy you should be looking for, not keeping me in here!" said Mitchell.

The Detective leaned back and Mitchell could have sworn he saw him show a mocking grin and the Detective said "Okay I'll bite; can you described the guy leaving the scene?"

Mitchell looked down at the picture and said, "I didn't see his face. The only thing I could see was his eyes. They were red, the blood shade red. That's all I can tell you…"

The Detective took back the picture and stacked his files into one pile. He got up from his chair, and walked to the door but before he left the room, he said to Mitchell "A social worker and lawyer will want to be talking to you in a couple of minutes. If I were you, I would try to explain how that fresh fingerprint got on the murder weapon. Have a good one kid," and left the room.

Mitchell put his hands on his head and breathed heavily. How could this happen? He thought. How can my parents be killed if I didn't hear anything? Who was that guy with the red eyes?

Mitchell's whole world was going out of control, and he had no idea what to do.