Nixon took a deep breath, the stale air did little to settle the writhing snakes in his stomach. Nixon scanned the small room the 'punishment room' as Mr. Adam, the orphanage owner called it; when you were new this was the room that plagued your nightmares, tales told by the staff to control you.

well he was facing that very same punishment now, he hadn't done anything but Mr. Adam - no one knew his last name, some of the older children said he didn't have a last name because he murdered his family, now this wasn't true but Nixon would believe it in a heartbeat - had wanted to set an example, and Nixon was just a target, a punching bag for anyone by this low point in his life. He was cursed, or so he'd been told; Mr. Adam would beat him while muttering 'cursed child' and 'demon-spawn' Nixon had tried desperately to block it out, sometimes though, when he was alone curled up on the cold, all-too-familiar floor he liked to think that perhaps being a demon wouldn't be too bad, he had never met a demon but until he did anything would be better than being human. He wanted no ties to Mr. Adam or any of the other dirty boys in the orphanage. All humans he'd met up until now in his short twelve year lifespan had been cruel, his memories fuzzy, overruled by the need of survival and the constant pain of famine, a heavy led and constant feeling of his stomach desperately trying to eat itself whole, sometimes that seemed to be a better option. He had heard some describe death as freedom for those who deserved it, Nixon did not believe he deserves whatever it was that he had heard mumblings about from the priests at the church, because how could a cursed child deserve anything?

Nixon was snapped out of his dark thoughts by a violent shiver that racked his frail body, he breathed in a shaky breath and felt his ribs ache - Mr. Adam had kicked him particularly harshly there only hours before, the wounds were still tender - Nixon gently cupped his small hand over his ribs, Nixon was very short for his age (probably due to lack of nutrition) and he was unnaturally frail as well.

of course, he pondered with a blank expression, that wasn't the worse of his problems, Mr. Adam had a special seal placed on Nixon's hip, on the right side, it was a very sticky piece of paper, a quarter of it peeked above the pant-line of his dirty brown pants; the paper was a cream colour and there was a strange symbol that appeared to be some sort of satanic star. Nixon did not recall the name, however Mr. Adam had no hesitation in placing it on him after a staff member had shoved Nixon against the wall (it was more of a body tackle, apparently he had been eyeing the staff members food wrong, at the time his naïve sense of injustice had coursed through his veins, he soon learned such things were dangerous and useless in this corrupted world.) and his body had been engulfed in blue flames (Nixon had heard that was the colour flames reached a certain temperature) engulfed him and Nixon had stared with wide eyes and trails of bitter tears of fear trailing down his face as Mr. Adam had grasped his tiny shoulder with giant, meaty hands and had slapped him harshly across the face. However do not misunderstand, Mr. Adam felt no remorse at the man's death; just annoyance at the potential paperwork to hire more workers, Mr. Adam was a very cruel man, Nixon thought apathetically.

the fleeting thought of escape graced his tortured mind, he wished he could stare at the moon, that always made him feel free...

there was no moon in sight in the underground punishment room.