Tyler

I remember a boy,

A boy with salt white hair, eyes the colour of thunder and hands painted red, as he watched the light from his father's eyes die.

White clothes soaked crimson, tears streaming down his pale skin, his hands were shaking, afraid, terrified as the pieces of glass tore the man's skin.

The room was ablaze in fire, electricity sparking alongside the metal walls, water seizing the floor and blood, there was so much blood mingling with his dead eyes.

His father was dead.
The boy was six years old.

Six years old,
when the monsters in white coats took everything from him.

Everything from the family who once loved him to the only friend he ever had.

Gunshots fire at him, the people around screaming in terror trying to protect themselves from their own undoing.

But he stood still, eyes fixed on the pool of blood and remembering his last moments like a dying breath.
The blood in his veins will never be the same again. His small hands will never be innocent again.

The boy was six years old when his whole life changed with just a shake of his hand.

Only six when the Phantom made him an instrument of their sick games.

And he vowed that day to make them pay for it,
Make them pay for what they did to him,
For what they took away from him,
For his family.
And, for her.