Fiction--And Where Was the Blame?

Rick Taylor. Born with no small anticipation. Some people thought of him as being a miracle child, while others wept for his purpose. His mother and father were never the best couple. Sure, they had fun in the beginning but when the novelty wore off they didnt know what to do. So they did what every normal couple does in times of desperation and decided that having a child together would be just the trick. In a way it was.

What i mean by that is that the two stayed together, but didnt find, and could not stop looking for that ever illusive spark. Little Ricky grew up in a home where he was never looked at as a child or a person, but as an experiment with little more than potential to offer.

He grew like a weed and would gather as much spite as one along the way. In school he was the cold one. Smart, but had little in the way of manners and caring. Oddly enough, as he got older this became quite attractive to the people around him. The boy was so icy to the touch that some believed him to glow in a light of mystery that no one had ever seen before. Each day he would catch glances till he crossed the threshold into his own house.

The eyes of others became an odd loss as soon as he walked through that door. It had been sixteen years and nothing had been gained by his parents. They sat on the couch in front of the television with hand desperately in hand. No one could say much for what the boy thought in his head day after day.

Comfort could only be found in the crippling silence of his room and in the scratches of the bedpost. One scratch for each day he woke in that room.

Till the day he decided that he would leave. He did not take one thing with him. He left mid day with a cloudy sky and a first breath of what he called freedom. The boy walked for miles and crossed the street of Park and Croft. A smirk crossed over his face...till the bus came.