TELL ME WHY YOU CRY

CHAPTER ONE- TRUTH IS RELATIVE.

It wasn't his fault. I know it wasn't. How could it have been?

No, it was just another kid. Another fuckin', worthless kid. The thing that pisses me off most about them, though, is that they're the future. The world's gone to shit with the crap we're feeding them.

It's their fault. My fault. Your fault.

Their fault for the bullshit, the false hope, the sense of security. It was his parents' fault- Day after day, he got driven home from school. Came home to a hot dinner. Maybe a shower. With goddamned soap bubbles. Sat at the table. Ate with his mom and dad. Had ice cream; vanilla, perhaps. A choice between vanilla or strawberry.

They were all lies. So now the kid's dead. And he's dead because I killed him. Kidnapping and premeditated torture and murder of a child. He wouldn't cry. He just wouldn't cry.

He never saw the homeless people, the drug addicts, crackheads. Never saw the fucking real world. Went home every day and did his homework. Watched TV. Probably Bugs Bunny or some shit, not the news. No, his parents would never allow that, the phonies. But while their kid thought the world consisted of a stupid hothead chasing 'round a gangly, extremely lucky bunny? They knew. They knew what it was like.

And me? I scratch the dark stubble casually. I'm standing here. Holding a knife. Some rope. This kid was messy. You can't even see the "Riket" on the handle- this kid just wouldn't cry. That's me, if you were wondering- You probably weren't. Arden Riket. Man, dried blood starts to get itchy. Me, I just hate them all fuckers.

Now, this homeless guy a couple metres away- The guy looking through the trash was keeping it real. He wasn't standing on the edge of the road with a dog, waving a phony sign saying they both had contracted cancer or some shit. He was out there. I nodded at him with a half smile. Granted, it was dark, and the chain link fence probably obstructed his view- But this guy deserved a smile. I liked this guy.

I kick off my shoes and removed my socks, fitting them on the child. One has to keep their feet warm. I remember his mom had his socks neatly arranged. Pity. He'll never wear 'em now.

Was there ice cream where he was now? I hope so. I hope he eats that fucking vanilla ice cream wherever he is, I hope he eats it so much he gets a fucking brain freeze. A painful one. And cry. Cry like hell wherever he is.

I wipe away the grime on his forehead and carve a teardrop with the sharp edge. It glides in smoothly, post mortem. Blood no longer runs in this body, just like tears never will. My eyes bore holes into the creamy coloured skin, dry as parchment, the colours too saturated.

We don't need another goddamn child who can't cry.

My stomach growled, protesting hunger.

"Shut up," I tell it.

Then I look at the boy, cold and gray as stone. "Didn't mean you. Sorry, kid. You be good now, right?"

I pat his head, and, with a nodding glance to a trash digger, leave. I walk away from one of the many who couldn't cry. Fuck me. Correction: One of the many who wouldn't cry. They were never taught to.

It all was, and will always be, relative.

It's all relative.