The Boy

The car lights slashed through the darkness. The sounds of car tyres grinding and mulching the sodden gravel grew nearer. Two wide brown eyes peered out amongst a hedge of leaves, caught in the entrancing glare of the light.
A young boy of about eight crouched behind those eyes. He was small, wet, and alone. His soft creamy skin hosted many small bruises and scars. Twigs and leaves braided his matted brown hair, and his cheeks were a pale, soil-smeared pink. His once clean patch less clothes, had become those of his every day attire, and his feet had long ago out grown his shoes. A horticulturist’s garden of dirt coated his small figure, blackening his hands and hiding behind his nails. His pockets overflowed with his most treasured possessions: a small rock ground to the shape of a blade, a twisted metal fork, a plastic soldier, and a selection of odd plastic pieces. Around his neck he wore a small wooden carving in the rough shape of a heart, he was a child of the forest and always would be.