CONTAINS SOME SWEARING.



It was Spring, and the evening was cool. A young boy of around five years old was sitting at the base of a large, wizened tree, a book in his hands. It was a colouring book that his mother had once owned, and he'd found it in the attic. He'd sneaked it out of the house without his father noticing, which to the boy was a miracle. Flipping through the pages, he saw that his mother preferred vivid, bright, happy colours rather than faint ones. There was only one light, faintly-coloured picture in the entire book that he could find. It was of a swan on a lake, her wings spread out as if to fly, but the boy could see that there were streaks of red running down the feathers. He wondered why his mother had coloured it like that and guessed she had been sad that day, but he could not understand why. What he could remember of his father's stories about Laurel Adrokus were good things; that she was always happy. The stories were never told to him specifically, though; always to his older sisters. Kisa, Yiva and Cait were their names, and they did not like him, Kisa in particular. Yiva was always the nicest to him, but she didn't ever help him or talk to him much for fear of Rak turning on her, too. He couldn't blame her for that, but it still hurt. Lorak Adrokus did not have any friends.
None at all.
He remembered Rak whispering in his sleep once, whispering that he was sorry for Laurel's demise. He remembered hearing his own father blame him for it. And he remembered Rak growling that he regretted naming the child after himself and his deceased wife, but wouldn't change it because it had been her last wish. Her dying wish.
Despite Laurel's clear wish for Lorak to be a happy child like the rest of her children, Rak abused him. Physically, emotionally. Lorak was not a happy child. He was not a happy child at all. Sometimes, this intelligent young boy, whose sunset-coloured eyes held more pain and more wisdom than they should have, wondered if he could have had a different life. He wished that his soul, floating above the clouds, had chosen a different body to inhabit. In these five years of his life, Lorak had wished for many things.
"BOY!" A furious shout erupted from the house. Lorak sprang to his feet, clutching the colouring book to his chest, eyes wide as he looked around in panic. He'd run to the tree at the back of the house, just before the woods begun. They lived in a very secluded area. "BOY, WHERE ARE YOU?!"
"I-I'm here," The child's voice was just a squeak. He shouted louder, shakily. "I-I'm here, Father!"
Rak emerged from the house, shaking his messy dark hair out of his eyes. He turned his head, catching sight of the boy, and sneered before striding straight over with a fast pace, long strides.
"Where've you been, eh?!" He growled at the child that he hated to call 'son', then spotted the book in his arms. "What's this, eh?!" He snatched it, only to have Lorak cry out in misery.
"P-please give it b-back!"
Rak payed no attention. He flipped through the pages, bright green eyes slowly widening in shock. His furious expression faded for several seconds to one of loss and pain, only for him to growl angrily and tear the book apart, shouting profanities at Lorak and cursing him to Hell repeatedly. "Don't you DARE touch anything up there again! DON'T YOU DARE!"
"I'm sorry!" Lorak had started to cry, tears streaming down his ivory-white face. The boy was beautiful, in a strange way. Strangely, strangely beautiful. "I'm s-s-s--" But his apologies turned into terrified screaming as his father dragged him by the hair towards the house.
He could see the knife waiting on the porch.

A few weeks later, Lorak was at school again. He was in his second year, and was quite proud of this fact. School was something that let him escape from the reality of his life back home, even if he still never had any friends. His teacher, he supposed, was the nicest person he'd met in his short life, but she was trained to be nice.
Still, when she asked him about the bruises on his arms and why he sometimes cried in class, he felt loved. Cared for. It may have been an act on the teacher's part, but Lorak hoped that it wasn't, because then he would truly be alone. Sometimes his intelligence astounded the teachers, because at six years old he should not be able to understand certain things. He wasn't above average intelligence academically, but when it came to emotions and understanding situations and the motives behind the actions of others, Lorak was skilled. He knew when the teachers spoke about him in hushed, hurried voices. He knew by the way they looked at him that they were concerned for his health. Yes, Lorak knew many things at this young age. His intelligence was probably the only reason he was still alive, else his abusive, mentally unstable father would have murdered him long ago. He feared Rak, but most of all, Lorak feared Death.
He sat at his small desk, drawing stick figures on his sheet of paper. It was 'playtime', a fifteen-minute break of teaching. One stick figure was huge and had sharp teeth, and angry eyes. One of his hands was pointing down to the line that symbolised the ground, underneath which Lorak had coloured the paper red and orange and yellow. The stick figure beside the angry one was small and looked scared, hands in a prayer position. Three stick figures were behind the largest, and their expressions were neutral. They had long hair, while the other two had short messy scruffy hair.
When Lorak's teacher saw this, a frown creased her gentle face. She swept her blonde hair behind her ear and picked the paper up gently, glancing from the young boy to the drawing several times.
"It's undone," The raven-haired boy blinked up at her. "Unfinished, missus McKenna."
"You can..." The middle-aged woman paused, examining the drawing, and it was not the first drawing in this nature that she'd seen from the boy. "You can finish it just now, here you are. It's very good." And with that she handed him the paper, and was out of the classroom.
Lorak Adrokus stared at the place she'd disappeared for a long moment, and as realisation came to him, he began finishing his drawing.
He watched his father speak to his teacher and the Headmistress later that day. They were sitting in the classroom, while Lorak had been told to stay just outside for a few minutes because they were having an 'adult talk'. It was as if they thought he couldn't comprehend that they were questioning his father about him. Lorak sighed and kicked at the little toys on the floor, blinking tears back. He peered in the little window on the wooden door. Rak was smiling in his charming way at the two females, evidently assuring them that he loved his son very much and would never ever harm him in any way. After a few minutes Lorak saw Rak's expression soften and turn to a sad one. That was when he knew he was giving the story of his wife's untimely death to the two teachers, to make them feel sorry for him.
Lorak cried quietly as he sat back on the plastic chair, clutching a little pillow to his chest.
When the tall man stepped out of the classroom, he looked at his son with a smile, but a cold gaze flickered in the depths of those emerald eyes. The teachers seemed pleased; they were smiling warmly. "Hey, kiddo!" Rak greeted cheerily, ruffling the boy's hair. Lorak didn't move a muscle. "Whatcha crying for, eh?" A faux concerned frown appeared on his face as he crouched down, wiping the boy's tears away. "You're not in trouble, these lovely ladies were just telling me how good you've been." And taking his son's hand, he left.
The beating that followed was one that Lorak would remember for years to come, for he had been so very close to death at that point...

Summer was very close to Hell for Lorak. No school meant that he was trapped with his father almost all day, although Rak did work for a living which offered him some freedom, at least. The man worked in a small store, which Lorak occassionally wondered about. He knew his father was a very intelligent man. Cunning, charming, smart. He could've been a lawyer if he'd tried, Lorak guessed.
The boy was sitting where he was often found sitting; at the base of the tree at the back of the yard. Unlike the time he'd sat there years ago holding a colouring book, Lorak held nothing in his hands, the day was blisteringly hot, and he was fifteen years old rather than five. He was glad for the shade of the tree. Lorak Adrokus was quite tall like his father, but he lacked Rak's muscular form; he was skinny, too skinny. But still, strangely beautiful, and too wise, too wise. He squeezed his orange eyes closed in despair as footsteps approached from behind the tree, but then realised that they weren't the heavy footsteps of Rak. They were light. Lorak turned and looked around the tree, only to stare up at the oldest of his siblings - Yiva. She, like Cait and Kisa, had brown hair. Unlike her sisters, she had inherited Rak's green eyes; theirs were grey. Yiva, however, did not hold a cold stare. Hers was a calm and amost warm gaze.
"We're going out tonight," She said in a calm tone. As intelligent and perceptive as Lorak was, he could not tell what his sister was feeling. "By 'we', I mean myself, Kisa and Cait. Don't make him angry."
He had the strangest feeling that she was the only member of his family that really cared about him, even if she never showed it.

He was twenty years old. Rak's temperament had only gotten worse over the years, and the worst thing was that Kisa, Yiva and Cait had left home. They rarely called, and Lorak had never spoken to them since their disappearances. Rak's abuse had gotten worse. He played with Lorak's mind until Lorak thought he was going mad, he beat Lorak until he was sure he was dying. Rak Adrokus had assured his son long ago that should the boy tell another soul, he'd kill him.
But he'd stopped caring - Lorak, that is. He was a man now, tall and still malnourished, but his will was stronger now. It had been growing stronger for a long time.
Lorak put the phone down, only for Rak to barge in through the front door and stare at him. "Who...who did you phone, boy?" His eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"A helpline," was his calm, almost toneless response. "A helpline for people that are abused."
And when he saw the murderous expression in Rak's eyes, Lorak ran. He ran out the back door and into the yard, sprinting straight past the old, wizened tree he loved so much and into the woods. He ran, and ran, and ran, and he could hear screaming and thudding footsteps behind him as Rak pursued him.
"I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOU, BOY!"
Help me! Please, someone, anyone! Please help me, I don't want to die!
Rushing water was heard. Lorak stopped with a yelp, staring at the waterfall that he had almost fallen into. How had he never known this was here?
He looked over his shoulder. He must have run...a very long way. And he could hear Rak. Sunset eyes looked to the waterfall. It was the only way, and it was a long way to fall.
"Come here, Lorak! Come fucking here!" Rak was visible now, from the trees, and Lorak shook his head.
He dived, all the while willing himself not to die, not to die, he didn't want to die but perhaps death was easier because then Rak would never never find him and he'd be safe oh he'd be so safe and he could have a family of his own and he would never never hurt them not like that not like Rak did oh no oh no oh God oh help oh no--
Lorak Adrokus slept the sleep of the dead.

But a higher being had been forced to curse his soul, just moments after it was released from Lorak's body.

Nine months later, he woke from this slumber that was supposed to be eternal, and did not understand. He drew air in desperately, only to have his mouth filled with dirt, and let out a soundless shriek, clawing at the earth above him. "NO! NO! NO!" He pulled himself from his own grave, now truly the living dead. Lorak coughed and spluttered, black hair falling into his face. He swept it aside, and stared at the gravestone.

Rest in Peace
Lorak Adrokus
May your soul be released
......

He could not read the dates underneath this, but it brought him to wonder who had buried him. And then he sobbed.
The white-silver mist came soon after. Cursed. Haunted. Immortal. It explained everything, everything that it could...
And he sobbed.
Lorak lay there for a long, long time. He lived in the woods until he could face the world, until he was almost dying of starvation. He remembered everything. He remembered leaping, and he had come to the conclusion that he had been brought back from the dead.
How?

Then the doctors did not believe him. The woman at the bus stop did not believe him. The police did not believe him.
There was noone to love him now...

Lorak screamed in his padded cell, throwing himself around and crying and sobbing. When they came in to inject him with needles, he was finally still, but cried all the more. All the more...

And he was released three months later. Three months in that hellhole of a place.

Lorak tried to live his life. He tried so very hard. But they haunted him...

Then there came the possession. There came the time when he travelled to Rak's house and searched for the man, finally finding him looking shocked and terrified. Lorak -- but it was not Lorak, for he was possessed, was he not? -- slit Rak's throat. Watched him fall to the ground.
Lorak ran.

...

...

...


And now, after such a long time, Lorak was staring Rak in the face again as he'd grown used to. Rak was still strong, even as a spirit.
The cursed one was not alone this time. Beside him, there was a woman his age -- or what he always told people was his age -- and she was beautiful. Not strangely beautiful like Lorak, but truly beautiful. Lorak loved this woman.
Rak was threatening this woman.
"I'll kill her," He sneered, watching the dark-and-light haired woman step back in fear. "I'll slit her throat like you did mine."
A flash of pain in his eyes. "You won't," Lorak growled.
"Is that a threat, or a promise?"
"It's a promise. You tortured me every day of my childhood, my teenage years. You took away everything-- or I should say, you stopped me from having anything in the first place. You blamed me for Laurel's death and I wasn't even able to think at the time!" There were tears streaming down his face now, and Rak just narrowed his eyes. "I hate you! I hate you, and I hope to God you go to hell, Rak, because it's the only place that'll let you in!"
His fist shot out into Rak's transparent body and squeezed the heart there, the dead, blackened heart. And Rak screamed.
"NO! NO!" He writhed, he writhed, he writhed, but only succeeded in the heart being pulled from his chest. Lorak stared at the dark grey, wispy thing, wondering how he could hold it in his palm. It dissolved into nothing. Lorak and Cirrus watched Rak do the same - turn to nothing.
A long, long silence.
"He's gone," Lorak croaked, and he was crying again. "My God, he's gone, Cirrus." She cradled the man to her as they sat on the sofa, stroked his hair and murmered sweet comforts, for he was in shock and in sheer relief. "He's gone, he's gone, he's gone, I'm not like him, he's gone..."




It probably wasn’t clear there, but basically this was written by Lorak C: Um yeah.

Edit: I removed the section with the more mature stuff :U Not entirely important so its all fine.