The familiar creaking noise erupted from Mylo's mattress, greeting him as he fell onto the covers. He stared up at the pale blue ceiling, drifting his gaze to the plastic blue ceiling fan that stopped working three years ago. He sighed, kicking off his stinky old tennis shoes. They rolled off the covers and fell to the ground, thudding on the tile.

It had been five years. Five years since his sister was killed. Five years since he had gone insane.

The scent of something dead filled his nose, but he was used to it. All he could smell was death. Everything he saw was drenched in blood, torn apart, or mutilated.

At first, it was a big deal. In class, he'd belt out a blood-curdling scream and freak the teachers out. Then, after being expelled for the fifth outbreak, he started getting used to the sight of blood, whether it really was there or not.

In his dreams, he relived his sister's death. He'd wake up, crying, wishing he could redo it. Wishing he could have died in her stead.

He'd also dream about the man. His smile would stare at him for most of his dream, and then right before he snapped awake, the man's scythe would swish down over his neck.

"Mylo," his mother cooed, cracking open the boy's door. "It's almost time for dinner. Come to the kitchen in a few minutes, okay?"

Mylo lay still for a moment while his mother waited for a response. Then, he rolled to his side, the bed groaning, and nodded slightly. His mother smiled with relief and closed the door quietly behind her.

The boy swiveled to the left and let his legs dangle from the bed. He folded his hands, dropping his head between his knees.

Blood gathered at his ankles, soaked his bed, and trickled out of his dresser drawers.

The stagnate smell of copper and Kira clouded the room. Mylo crinkled his nose, rising from the bed. He swayed to the door, refusing the blood sucking at his socks.

When he stepped into the hallway, everything was red, sloshing noises coming from everywhere. Mylo ignored them, wobbling into the kitchen.

His mother smiled at him when he sat at the table that also reeked of Kira. Blood soaked the carpet. Mylo let out a disgusted sigh as his mother brought two plates to the table: one for him, one for Kira.

"Mom, she's dead," Mylo fussed, stabbing his fork into a bloody piece of steak. He shoved the thing into his mouth, letting the juices seep in before he swallowed it.

His mother smiled. "Stop being so silly, Mylo. She's sitting right next to you, eating like a good girl. Isn't that right, Kira?" She stared at the empty chair next to him, listening to the silence. "See, Mylo? She's sad you think she's dead."

Mylo's mother started to go insane a few months after the incident. She seemed to convince herself that Kira was still there, and started making meals for her, only to eat them after she figured "Kira" wasn't hungry.

"Whatever," Mylo grumbled, shoving the steak down his throat. The barbecue sauce was extra spicy, to force flavor into his mouth and smell into his nostrils.

His mother moved out of her son's way and sat in the chair across from where her dead daughter supposedly sat. Mylo dunked his plate in the foamy water of the sink and scrubbed a washcloth over the food.

"Mylo, will you ever tell me how she died?" His mother asked, her voice nasally. She started to sob.

Mylo shook his head and he slid his plate into the dishwasher. "No. Never."

His mother let out a cry, crashing her fists on the table and squishing her cheek against the wood. Tears pooled around her, but to Mylo it was more blood.

"You will never know how she died for your own good," Mylo said flatly, keeping himself from grieving right along with his mother. It took everything in him just to turn around and walk straight to his room.

He slammed his bedroom door behind him and collapsed onto his bed, falling head-first into his pillow. Tears poured out of his eyes, matting his hair to his forehead. He hasn't cried over Kira in a long while, but now that his mother was worked up, he couldn't hold it in any longer.

A sharp scream interrupted his sobbing. He shot up straight, tears still streaming down his cheeks. He made his way to his door, slipping left and right on the tile. Wrenching the cold handle open, he skidded down the hallway. Something was wrong. Why wasn't everything covered in blood? Why wasn't he hallucinating?

His mother was sprawled out awkwardly on the ground. Blood spilled out from a slit in the back of her neck. Mylo stared, horrified, at his dead mother.

He rushed to her, lifting her in his arms. Her eyes were bloodshot and open, her mouth hanging out. Tears poured from Mylo's eyes. He screamed in rage. She was killed. Killed.

Mylo didn't let the words process in his head. He let it slowly sink in as he stared at the motionless, lifeless woman in his arms. When he knew it wasn't some stupid nightmare, he slid his hand over her eyelids and kissed her forehead softly.

"Hey, that isn't interesting," a deep voice complained. Mylo laid his mother down and stood up slowly, staring down at her.

"What do you want?" Mylo asked, his voice raspy. "You've already taken my sister and now my mother. Just take my life already! I'm the one that deserves to die!"

The man squeezed Mylo's shoulder, as if he was comforting him. Mylo shook the hand off and turned around, staring blankly at the hood on the man's head, at the bloody knife that had killed his mother.

In spite of himself, Mylo reached down to where his left hand should have been, but felt nothing.

"Oh," the man grunted. "You never got a prosthetic?"

Mylo glared at the man, a growl scratching his throat. He forced it down. "Sorry, I didn't know I was supposed to," he spat.

The man laughed. "So you still are interesting. That's good."

Mylo's eyebrows creased. "Please kill me."

The man frowned. "I know you don't mean it. And I only kill those that I'm ordered to kill."

Mylo laughed madly. "You're 'ordered' to kill an innocent little girl and her grieving mother?"

The man smiled. "If I wasn't ordered to, I wouldn't have."

"So what are you going to do to me? Leave me as a witness? Kill me?"

The man rubbed his gloved fingers over the bloody blade, slicking off the liquid. "How are the hallucinations? Fun?" The man completely ignored Mylo, sliding the knife back into his cloak.

Mylo stared, surprised that the man knew about the blood. "You-"

"Did you really think I could let you be witness to two crimes without sounding completely crazy?" The man cackled, rubbing his gloves together. "When I tranquilized you, a stimuli I designed hacked into your brain's optical sensory system and confused you with hallucinations."

"Why tell me?" Mylo croaked, understanding. "Why tell me now? Because you were ordered to kill me? Because-"

"Don't get any ideas, Mylo," the man said sternly. "I'm not here to kill you. Actually," the man reached into his pants pocket and presented Mylo with a needle. "I'm here to give you this. It will cease the hallucinations."

"You're five years too late," Mylo mumbled ungratefully. He held his hand out to receive the strange needle, but the man stuffed it back in his pocket.

"If you're going to be stubborn, you can just live with seeing gore wherever you go."

"Give it," Mylo sighed, gesturing with his fingers.

The man's lips crooked into a smile as he plopped the needle in Mylo's palm. The silver point quickly punctured his hand, sending shivers throughout his arm. The strange cold stems traveled through his body, finally clotting in his brain.

"Feels nice, right?" The man laughed. "You'll feel pain in a second, but don't let it get to you."

Mylo was frozen for a second, and then a scream ripped from his throat. One after another, they barreled from his lips, his lungs scratching for a breath. The pain quenched all the fear Mylo could've felt.

The man stood, a smile set on his lips. A devious grin Satan would wear. A satisfied smirk.

Mylo clutched his chest, trying to claw out his heart. He didn't understand why, but he needed to get whatever the man gave him out.

He tried to cough it out. That didn't work.

"Mylo, it's nothing bad. Like I said, I wasn't ordered to kill you," the man laughed.

Mylo glared for a second at the man that found everything amusing. This was the man that found even death funny. Mylo decided he despised the man even more.

"Just relax, kid," the man said decidedly, as if it was the only good solution he could come up with.

Mylo didn't trust the man, but he let the strange numbing feeling and pain take over his body. He felt fuzzy all over, and then the feeling went away, like a weight he didn't know was there lifted off of him.

The man's smirk grew wider. "Good. You don't have family anymore, either."

Mylo froze where he was, a bent over statue.

"How do you know that?" He asked, forgetting to deny everything the man said.

The man held out a square-shaped card. It was mostly black with a large, cursive "P" in red on it. The man flipped it over quick and Mylo could make out a strange arrangement of numbers and letters. It looked like gibberish to him.

"All of your family members are dead now, right?" The man repeated, sliding the card back into his cloak.

Mylo wanted to deny it, but confusion overrode him. He nodded in defeat.

"Well, that was planned," the man laughed. "Different assassins were assigned to your family members to isolate you."

"Me? Why me?" Mylo stressed, pointing at himself. "I'm nothing special! And a lot of innocent lives were taken!"

The man frowned. "Look, Mylo. If you're going to be difficult, I'll have to force you to come with me."

"I have a choice in what I do with my life!" Mylo protested, crossing his arms over his chest. "And you aren't making any sense! My dad was killed in a car crash!"

The smirk shimmered over the man's lips again. "Mylo, you don't have a choice. You've seen too much to still be alive." He paused a moment to retrieve his card, flipping it in his fingers. "If you refuse to come with me, there are seven assassins waiting outside to kill you."

Mylo laughed. "I don't believe it." Really, he didn't. Seven assassins? In one place? To kill one boy?

"Take a look outside," the man pointed to the door behind him. Mylo looked over his shoulder and then stepped forward, yanking the door open.

Sure enough, seven people dressed just like the man next to him stood outside in a respectful line, each equipped with scary-looking weapons.

"Come with us," a hard female voice bellowed from one of the assassins.

Mylo blinked, unsure of what to say. "I want an explanation of what the heck is going on first," he said shakily.

The man walked out to his comrades and stood in the line somewhere. Mylo couldn't tell him apart from the others.

Mylo wasn't about to go with the man whom he hated so much. With the people who had killed his family just to "isolate" him. No way.

"I'd rather die than go with you," Mylo decided. He shut the door behind him and walked across the grass to the line of assassins, still straight in a line. He stood in front of the man he thought was his family's killer and glared at him.

"Nice try, but that isn't me," the man stepped out from the end of the line and walked to Mylo.

"Mylo, you are coming with us whether you like it or not." The female voice rang from the line. Mylo couldn't tell where she was.

"Sorry, Mylo," the man raised a gun to Mylo's shoulder and pulled the trigger right before he could react. Mylo fell to the dew-tipped grass. "Not really."