[glow=#FF99CC]"Experience: that most brutal of teachers. But you learn, my God do you learn."[/glow]
[glow=#FF9900]- C. W. Lewis[/glow]
Dietrich stared out the window, watching the town disappear. For the past seven years, Lake Arrowhead, California was his home. He loved the beautiful scenery, but the town was vile, full of corruption. Technically, it would take two days and eleven hours to arrive, but the employee at the desk mentioned the possibilities of layovers. According to the worker, Eric and him would board several buses throughout their trip. Considering the distance, it wasn't surprising. Ride. Exit. Board. Repeat. Simple procedure. Dietrich wasn't fond waiting at the bus station for hours, but it was inevitable. He wasn't an expert on riding buses, but the bus route schedule was unorthodox. Not that he was complaining. Port Angeles was the most expensive route available. It costed them most of their stolen money, but it was worth it. Down the road, Dietrich would be forced to pick-pocket. Hopefully, his next victim was wealthy-looking. He couldn't risk pick-pocketing more than one person on the run. After they arrive at Port Angeles, his options would be wider.
One hour later, fatigue consumed him. Before he drifted off, Dietrich picked up his duffel bag, unzipped it, and retrieved a regular-sized pillow. He nabbed it from the orphanage. He placed it against the window, using it to cushion his head. He zipped his bag shut and dropped it on the floor. Dietrich adjusted his position and rested his head against the pillow, mindful of his ribs. Due to his injuries, he couldn't slouch too heavily. After his eyes fluttered shut, Dietrich fell asleep. Light snores escaped his lips, signaling his slumber.
"-up. Wake up!"
His eyes snapped open. Dietrich rose into a sitting position. He surveyed his surroundings, noticing the familiar tiled floors and porcelain tub. Images of his last beating surfaced inside his mind, evoking a shiver. Dietrich crawled away from the tub, pressing his back against the opposite wall. He curled his knees against his chest, wrapping his thin arms around his shins. "W-What do you want?" Dietrich inquired, voice above a whisper. Bath tubs triggered his anxiety, courtesy of Mr. Wilson's "drowning" punishments. Unless Mr. Wilson punished him, Dietrich avoided bath tubs like the plague, preferring shower stalls.
A scrawny, pale boy materialized in front of him. He was young, no older than nine with short blonde hair and gemstone green eyes. He wore a short-sleeved black, white, and blue striped polo shirt, white khaki shorts, and black trainers. The boy was a carbon copy of Dietrich, except his hair was a shade lighter. Suddenly, his appearance contorted, enduring a transformation. Livid burn marks marred his pallor skin, from head to toe. His pristine clothes lost their vibrancy, torn and singed at the edges. A seemingly innocent smile plastered on his boyish face. However, his mesmerizing emerald hues were cold. "Bath time! Bath time! Little brother needs a bath!" he chanted childishly.
Dietrich paled. "N-No, Dmitri," he protested.
Dmitri giggled in response. "Silly brother! You're filthy!" he chirped, pointing at Dietrich's outfit.
He glanced at his body. A layer of soot and blood covered his skin, staining his singed clothes. Before Dietrich could react, a small hand gripped his wrist, dragging him across the bathroom. He struggled against his brother's grip, but it was surprisingly strong. "N-No! Don't! Stop it, Dmitri!" he snapped, fear evident in his tone. He peered into the bath tub. His eyes widened in horror. Instead of water, it was filled with blood.
"In you go!" Dmitri laughed, forcing his brother's head down.
"N-No!" Dietrich's head was dunked in the bath tub full of blood.
Dietrich jolted awake, panting. A sheen layer of sweat accumulated on his pallor skin. He surveyed his surroundings, eyes wide and unfocused. It took him a moment to register his location. Relief coursed through him. He was safe. No more bath tubs. No more orphanages. No more Mr. Wilson. Dietrich leaned back, resting his head against the head rest. He breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly, calming his erratic heartbeat. Pain blossomed inside his chest, evoking a soft groan. His ribs were throbbing. He pressed a slender hand against his chest, mindful of his ribs. Dietrich searched for the bottle of painkillers, locating it between Eric and him. He unscrewed the lid, deposited two capsules on his palm, and capped the lid shut. He leaned forward, picked up his bag, and brandished a bottle of water. He popped the pills in his mouth and washed them down with lukewarm water. He ignored the chalky taste and dropped his duffel on the floor. Instead of packing his water bottle, he held it in his hands. Hopefully, the painkillers kicked in soon.
((Picked a random town in California. Ignore the unrealistic bus route.))