The streets of LA had been known to be dangerous for adults, who – with their worldly knowledge – certainly had to have a better chance at survival, but he was hardly ten years of age! How could he have survived in the streets for so long? He walked with the simple confidence of a child, taking each step in his stride, his tatty Reeboks sticking to the pavement every other step; he had stepped in gum, back on Thelborn St. It could be readily assumed that he had no mother, for his socks did not match, both knee-high and worn with use. His shorts were sturdier, tan-colored and revealing usage of park benches and street corners as beds. Dark blue his shirt was, a picture of an asteroid with blue and red stripes hurtling it forward at the speed of cotton. Had he notions of space and planets and comets? Not at all, but the shirt did look nice on him, didn't it? People would walk right by him, oblivious to anything but their own doings and goings. Such was the modern fashion, no? Shoulders hunched, eyes diverted, masses of humanity walked to and fro in the streets of LA while the boy parted them simply, with no more a care for them that they had for him. But for those who did notice him, it was perhaps a bit odd. Granted, LA was an attraction for this sort of riffraff. A Spiderman backpack bounced against his back in time with his steps, thin and nearly flat. Perhaps nothing was inside? The white handle of a lollipop stuck out between two lips, the candy buried well inside. Upon both of his wrists, there clung and hung dozens of jangles and bangles and bracelets. Rust-colored, plastic, toy jewelry, wristbands, even a few plastic rings of a Pepsi six-pack; he had them all. Ridiculous? Maybe, or simply original. Either way, it was odd.

His feet paused at a traffic light, and he had a most serene patience, the likes of which were rare outside a monastery. Skin the shade of cooked chicken he had, with a head of hair the hue of nightshade and just as much a tangled mess. A sprinkle of summer freckles shown beneath eyes of a most brilliant sky-blue. Ah, such eyes. The light turned green and again the boy resumed his walking. His eyes, ladies and gentlemen, such eyes as you have never seen before! On a vibrant summer morning, someOne had taken the sky's tint from above and colored the boy's eyes with the sky's color, and they were just as empty as the blue sky above. Perhaps empty is not the proper word, but there was simply...nothing. A curious boy, a curious soul, a curious mystery indeed. Cars brayed with a single-minded malice, hurrying the boy along the grey pavement as the sidewalk sloped downward, leaving behind the more hurry-scurry part of town in favor of a series of apartments. Curious, curious indeed. What might the mystery be? Eccentric clothing could be explained with careless parents, his eyes could've been simply the glass-eyed stare of the young and ignorant, but clasped between his two hands in a lover's caress...was a ketchup bottle. His hold never faltered, it was sure and firm. Again another crosswalk, and again the same patience. Just a boy and his ketchup bottle, walking along the streets of LA.

The sounds of urban living assaulted one's ears, sharp calls, loud cholo music, cars going in and out, children playing as the boy should have been doing, but he moved forward on the street, sucking absently on his lollipop. He turned toward the front door of an apartment complex, just as a pair pushed open the glass doors, talking and laughing with one another too much to even take note of the boy who slipped in as the door closed, bottle clutched firmly in his hands. Up, up, up the steps the boy went, Spiderman beating out a rhythm against his back, until he had planted his feet upon the second floor and down he was walking again, black metal bars flashing past. And suddenly? He stopped, his right foot meeting the left, blue eyes looking up at a door that read '2908'. Lollipop still firmly in place, he transferred the bottle to one hand, reached up forward and pushed the doorbell. Ding-dong! The sound rang. A muffled curse inside, steps, and the door opened to reveal a brown-skinned individual, baggy pants and goatee included. The man stared at the boy down his broken nose, with a curiosity so blatant that he scratched his head in a classic 'Huh?' pose.

"Yo, kid, I ain't buying no girlscout cookies, eh? Beat it." He snarled, but the boy's eyes were latched firmly on his own, and the man growled low in his throat, disturbed at his own inability to go back inside and slam the door on the kid's face. The man shifted on his feet, uncomfortable, and his own anger stirred at how much the little kid was disturbing him. "Seriously kid, scat. Where's your mamá, eh? She gonna beat you bad when she find out yo're gone." Unblinking, the child kept the man's gaze and as the moments wore on, he grew more agitated, and flung curses at the boy, promising dire straits if he didn't leave, and yet the man seemed unable to go back, and unable to reach forth and strangle the boy until his sky-blue eyes closed eternally. He fretted back and forth, anger strumming through his body, and at last he threw up his hands and moaned: "Man, kid, what do you want?!"

The child stared innocently at the man, shifted his lollipop to the left, and offered up his ketchup bottle, both hands curled around the glass. The man stared back incredulously. "You damn idiot kid," He muttered, and reached forth, ripping the bottle out of his hands and balancing it against his torso, began to open the bottle. "Get someone else to open your damn ketchup bottle, eh?" The lid popped off.

Darkness erupted from the glass confines, with eyes burning with hellfire, crimson as the devil's wine. The man screamed and fell backwards, his shrieks keening and agonizing. The boy watched on with his bright blue eyes, even as the grotesque sounds of a demon having his dinner filtered out from the shabby apartment, even as a splatter of blood flew up and struck the child across the cheek. The inky shadows pooled together once more and slipped back within the bottle. The boy took a few steps forward, and bent down, his Spiderman backpack slipping over his head while he retrieved the bloody lid and the glass bottle, sealed the bottle again, turned around and walked away. Down again, his sticky shoe met with the cement sidewalk. A look to the left, a look to the right, the boy crossed the street, ketchup bottle clutched firmly in both hands.