Can you imagine a time when the truth ran free?
The birth of a song, the death of a dream?
 
         Gentle snow drifted down from the fog-filled sky, settling comfortable on the trails and the trees in the park, the glistening flakes like tears of the sky. There was no wind, not tonight. It was calm, and the park was lit a little by moonlight, but more so by the elegant old streetlamps. On a bench beneath one sat a young boy, wrapped in a thick fur coat, a knit scarf wrapped around his neck and the ruffed hood pulled close around his face- he couldn't have been older than sixteen. His large, gold eyes gazed down at a notebook in his hands, the paper filled with a spidery, elegant script. He was January, the youngest of his family of ten, aside from the child his mother now carried. January The Port. As the rest of his family had, the young man had been given a title upon his birth. This he was taught to be good at- but it came naturally. No matter what they would have called him, the young man would have doubtlessly given his heart to writing. Such a way with words he had! 
          January's delicate hands snapped the notebook shut, slipping it into the folds of his coat, and adjusting the billowing furs around his ankles as he stood. Those same hands pulled the scarf over his nose- hiding the bruises around his mouth. His pale blue hair was carefully positioned over the bruises over his right eye, golden iris peering at the ground from behind purpled flesh as he walked. Oktober would want him home soon, and God knows what would happen were he late... His heavy boots shuffled through the ankle-deep snow, as fast as the tall, slender boy could manage on his delicate, battered legs. 
         This park was his sanctum sanctorum, his retreat from the outside world. Long after it closed at night, January would sneak in, those tiny feet and hands nimble on the fence. He'd gotten very good and being quick after living with his brother- it made things much easier. Even so, the three miles through the snow were no less cold and no less windy. He drew the slate grey fur closer around his narrow shoulders, standing for a while at the top of the driveway, gazing at the small, worn house with dread. This was always the time of day he hated most. Returning to his own private hell, even though he really could run away if he wanted. Oktober wouldn't come for him, not unless he missed having something to fuck every night. Glistening, salty diamonds slipped over the purple skin on his cheek, and he slowly slid down the driving, slipping gradually down the ice more than he actually walked, as paralyzed with dread as he was. But that sleek, orange-and-black car wasn't in the drive, and, for now, he was free.
         January slipped in the door and back to his bedroom. His bedroom was small, barely larger than a closet. There was a pile of moth-eaten pillows in one corner, and piled on that were his prized possessions- his furs. Though they were of the finest quality, January hadn't paid a dime for them. They were each gifts, from his "grandfather." That is, the man that had built his parents, May and November. He spoiled each of his Creations, and all of their children as well; January was no different. He slipped off his boots and let the coat fall into the pile. Underneath, he wore a grey-blue, longsleeved shirt, made of a thin fabric. It was just enough to cover the bruises and the cuts on his pale, narrow body. He wore a pair of deep black, acid wash bootcuts, which he wore riding on his hips, light sweater pulled down over them. He curled up on his "bed," large eyes peering over at the bookshelf. It was absolutely stuffed with volume upon volume of his poetry- the story of his life since he was capable of writing. These were as dear to him as the furs, because they were his heart. They were his soul, and they detailed all the pain that he suffered at the hands of his brother. The bookshelf was also the only piece of furniture in the house. It was made of collapsing particle board, and it leaned a bit to the left, where there was a dip in the floor of his room due to water damage and broken wood. It was a depressing piece of furniture, really, but it was so full of character that he couldn't bear to get rid of it- he wouldn't if he even had the money to. 
 (( Work in Progress. ))