Every single day, at around five o’clock in the afternoon, there was a boy who would just sit, and stare at the graves. He would read each name off of every engraved stone, as small tears fell down his face. After reading the whole gravestone, he would smile a slight smile. This day was different though. The boy didn’t feel the same sensation he usually did when he was in the graveyard. Before he knew it, he was running. Running for his life. Running until he couldn’t breathe any longer. He wasn’t controlling himself any longer, he didn’t know what was. He could feel the blood bolt through his veins, and the adrenaline started to kick in. He thought he would never do this. He thought he would never need to do this. He ran faster than he ever had before, until suddenly, his lungs gave out. His body collided with the ground, and a sudden rush of pain jolted through him. He tried to scream, but nothing escaped his mouth but a whisper. The foul taste of blood filled his mouth, and he desperately pleaded for it to go away. His body started to feel cold, then he was freezing, then shivering, and realized that he hadn’t eaten or drunken a thing in two days. He tried to rise back to his feet, but the boy just couldn’t. He couldn’t do it. Now the tears started to flood his face like a river on a rainy day. The boy was angry, sad, confused, and all of the above. He started to cry tears of actual sadness; sadness for himself, not for other people. He had just then realized that he had never been happy. He never had one friend, and the “friends” that he did have, always stabbed him in the back. They would pretend to like him, and then just leave him the next day and laugh it off like it was no big deal at all. They would tell him to man up, but that just brought him down even more. His mother and father never paid any attention to him, which was because they were obsessed with his perfect little sister. The boy could now conclude that he was angry: angry at himself, angry at all of the people who used him, angry at the world. He never thought he would do this, but now was the time. He needed revenge. He finally got all of the energy to pick himself up and keep running. He ran until he found it, and a compact grin appeared on his tear stained face. He opened the box with a key he had always left in this pocket. He found something. A gun. He left it there just in case he needed it, and he needed it now. He took the gun and eyed it. He wanted death, but he didn’t want death for himself. He wanted to live, to watch what he was going to create. He wanted rebellion. Rebellion against all of the monsters who had murdered all of the innocent people who lie in the graves. Rebellion against the mean kids at school, rebellion against the world. He hated death, but he loved it. He always kept the gun unloaded, because he never liked the idea of killing another living soul. He craved war, but he didn’t have the heart to generate war. He wanted all of the evil in the world to vanish, and then he started to wonder if he was the evil in this world. He couldn’t be though, right? How could his poor, innocent soul bring evil into this world? He realized that he was both good and evil, and he realized that every single living and dead soul in this world was both evil and good. He put the gun down, and smiled to himself. Is there anything in this world that is good? He walked back to the graves, and sat down next to his favorite one, his grandmothers. He let the happy set of tears fall now, and leaned on the stone and started to fall into a deep slumber. He was just a boy, in the graveyard, waiting for a war.